Clockworks
by knullabulla
Summary: No one ever sends good news via telegram. One day, a telegram arrives for Thomas Barrow. With help from Phyllis Baxter as well as some very unlikely sources, Thomas learns about love and forgiveness. Originally a one-shot; this story has grown into something much more! Read/Review
1. Chapter 1

"Do you believe in God, Mr. Carson?" Thomas Barrow queried as he gazed at an unseen spot in the middle distance, his voice so low that it was barely above a whisper, "I used to attend church all the time with my family. Every Sunday, I would sit directly in front of the pulpit with my mother and my father on my left and my sister, Margaret, on my right." These were the first words he had voluntarily uttered since the telegram had arrived that morning. Up until this point, the under butler had mechanically performed his duties as though he were an automaton, punctuating every action with a quiet "yes, m'lord" and "yes, m'lady."

Unsure of how to navigate the emotionally tumultuous inner waters of the somber man sitting across from him, Charlie Carson slowly nodded to the affirmative. "I will not deny that the family has experienced an inordinate share of grief in recent years," he began carefully. Indeed, the heartbreak of so many deaths seemed to reverberate throughout the walls and corridors of Downton Abbey; it scarcely seemed fair to Carson that one family should carry such a burden. And, yet, there it was. "Mr. Barrow, I've gathered that you may have received some," he paused for a moment as he searched for a suitable word, "_unfortunate_ news this morning, but we must not lose our faith in the good Lord even when it is difficult for us to understand—"

Nodding his head as though the other man's words had only just barely registered, Barrow interrupted, still speaking in the same, nearly inaudible tone, "My father died yesterday morning."

"I'm very sorry for your loss. Perhaps a good night's rest will do you—"

"I was twelve when I learned that He doesn't love me," breathed out Barrow in a single, halting exhalation. He stared down at his glove. He often imagined that others could see the perfectly circular scar pulsating beneath the thin leather shroud and that if they listened close enough, the scar would whisper his darkest secrets to the world. He imagined that it was screaming now. How strange that the glove was presently being splattered with droplets of moisture, he mused to himself as tears spilled unnoticed from his eyes.

For a moment, Carson fancied to himself that the pain emanating from Barrow's words was something tangible that could be plucked out of the air and soothed. Or, at the very least, mollified enough for them to call it a night. Why hadn't he asked Elsie to handle Barrow? She was always so much better at this sort of thing. "Thomas, I'm very sorry for your loss, but I'm sure that your father loved you very—"

"No, I mean God. God is supposed to love all of His children; He created all of His children to be just so. He made me this way, and He damns me for being this way. How can God love me if it's His will that I burn?" There was no anger is his voice; rather, he spoke as someone who had long ago accepted a simple truth.

"Thomas?" the butler asked gently, feeling somewhat bewildered at the direction of the conversation but wanting to be supportive nevertheless, "I'm not sure I follow." He knew that he was lying, and he felt his stomach knot up around the lie.

"Do I really need to quote Leviticus 18 and 20 to you, Mr. Carson?" Barrow leveled his gaze at the other man for the first time that day. Continuing, his voice quivering with a flood of emotion as tears continued to fall unheeded from his eyes, "It's like you said, Mr. Carson. God made— He made me— God made me twist— He made me _twisted_ and— and _foul_. He made me this way. He made me this way even though He says that I should _burn_ for— for being the way that He made me."

A pang of guilt struck Carson as he heard his own words from years gone by echoed back at him and remembered the day Barrow stood before him, hat in his hands, a look of utter despair and anguish upon his face as he pleaded not to be cast out. "Thomas, I cannot pretend to understand or to approve of your," he searched the air for a word that was better than _perversion_, "proclivities," (_well done, Charlie_!) "but please believe me that I've never wished you any unhappiness. I apologize if my choice of words have caused you pain."

"I thank you, Mr. Carson, for saying that. Really, I do. But my father was a mere mortal man. If _God_ Himself does not love me, how could I ever expect something like that from my father? How could I ever expect _anyone_ to love me when I've been created entirely unworthy of love?"

Carson swallowed, his throat feeling increasingly parched as he grappled with how he might assuage the situation. "Surely, you don't believe that? I seem to recall a rather proud young man throwing my words back at me," he ventured, hoping to rekindle a bit of that prideful spark.

But Barrow only shrugged his shoulders and responded with yet another non sequitur, "He painted over the sign."

"The sign?

"_Barrow and Son Clockworks_. I was going to follow in his footsteps. Did you know that, Mr. Carson? That workshop has been in my family for five generations. My father thought that he would pass his life's work down to me just as his father did and his father's father did. And I was supposed to pass it down to _my _son. But we both know that's never going to happen, don't we?

"I'm not sure what I believe. I'm honestly not sure whether I believe in anything," he paused for a moment before whispering almost to himself, "No, that's not true. God heard me that one time." He sighed deeply as though a heavy weight pressed down upon his shoulders. "My father believed it; I know that for certain," he continued, "He believed with every fiber of his being that his only son was damned. He died believing it."

The two men sat in near silence save for the sound of jagged breathing as the younger man wept. Charlie Carson had never in his life struggled to find the right words; once a word was chosen, once a decision or action was made, well, that was it and there was no use wishing otherwise. Truth be told, he wanted nothing more in this moment than to be asleep in his bed. Wearily he entreated, "Perhaps you could talk to your father about these things when you attend his service?"

Barrow let out a chocked sob as he retrieved a folded slip of paper from his coat pocket. "'Father died. Stop. Stay away if you are still the same. Stop.' My sister certainly has a way with words, doesn't she?" With a defeated shrug of his shoulders, he shook his head, "They don't want me there."

"I'm sorry."

As if struck by a sudden, agonizing pang, Barrow ripped off his glove and began to massage the raised scar-tissue feverishly with his thumb as though the action might return the flesh to its once pristinely smooth state. "He heard my prayers once. God. He heard them. I was up to my knees in blood and mud. There wasn't a single day in that I didn't have to watch somebody die. Not a single day that I didn't have to look into the lifeless eyes of a man who had only moments before been so full of life. And then, he'd be gone; a bullet between his eyes, his limbs mangled and bleeding. It doesn't matter. In the end, he was dead. I keep waiting for a night when I no longer dream about them."

Carson blinked rapidly with surprise, "I had no idea you felt that way."

"Why? Because I don't scream like a bloody loony the way Mr. Lang did?"

In spite of himself, Carson nodded. The nocturnal caterwauling of his lordship's one-time-valet had been, if nothing else, a great disturbance to the efficient running of the household.

"I prayed to go home. I was just so bloody sick of it all— of everything. So, I prayed to go home. And," he raised the damaged appendage before him, "He heard my prayers and He delivered me from that hell hole. I thought that maybe it was a sign that God really did love me, and I guess I still believed that I might have a chance at being happy. That God has something other than eternal hellfire and what-have-you planned for me.

"At any rate, it doesn't matter now. Last time I saw my father, I was fourteen, and he— he caught me. With a _friend_," ignoring the barely stifled sound of choking coming from Carson, he continued,_ "_I think he always knew what I am, but it devastated him when his suspicions were confirmed. He painted over the workshop sign that very same day. _Barrow Big Splotch of Brown Paint Clockworks_. 'I have no son. My father's legacy dies with me' is what he said. And he told me to only return once I was— once I was _normal_. And, I've tried. I really have tried. But _God_ made me this way. Even though He could never love me. Even though _he _could never love me. And, well, now he's dead."

They sat in silence for what felt like an eternity but was more likely only a few short minutes. Finally breaking the interminable tranquility and endeavoring to keep the reproachfulness out of his voice, Carson prompted, "But didn't you go to visit your father last year?"

Letting out a sharp laugh entirely absent of mirth, Barrow responded truthfully, "I'm sorry, Mr. Carson. I lied to you. Please, don't be cross. I went to see a doctor—well, a quack as it turned out—but, he said that he was a doctor." He sighed as his cheeks reddened in embarrassment at the memory of how he had so foolishly allowed himself to be duped, "The truth is, I spent nearly a week getting myself electroshocked because some charlatan with a stethoscope said he could make me _normal_." Again, he laughed a mirthless laugh, "And now I have a crater in my _arse_ because I let myself believe that I can bend God's will with a few injections of contaminated saline!"

Blinking at the coarseness of Barrow's words, Carson found himself struggling to understand. Above their heads, the muffled tones of a grandfather clock striking the hour could be heard, and it was as though a spell was broken. Two o'clock in the morning. And even though he still wasn't entirely certain to what the under butler had subjected himself in lieu of visiting his father, Carson felt too fatigued at that moment to pursue the matter any further. "Thomas, perhaps it is best that we call it a night. Get some rest, and I'm sure things will look brighter in the morning."

"Yes, Mr. Carson."

"Good night, Thomas."

"It's Mr. Barrow, Mr. Carson." Gone from his eyes was the barely contained, yet honest and pure, emotion from only a few moments ago; in its place, a mask of stoney inscrutability. Charlie Carson had always believed that look to be another mark of Thomas Barrow's selfish pride and arrogance, but now he knew better.

"Good night, Mr. Barrow."

"Good night, Mr. Carson."

In the library, the great pendulum of the grandfather clock continued to mechanically swing, and if one were to look closely, one would be able to decipher the words so finely engraved on the metallic works. _Barrow and Son Clockworks_.


	2. Chapter 2

_That's not where it goes_, he thought groggily as he contemplated a sunbeam dancing upon the strands of a newly spun web. He sat up with a jolt—first with the sudden realization that he had no idea where the spider had wondered off but even more so with the realization that he had slept in. The last time he had been permitted to sleep past the break of dawn, he mused to himself, his entire body was a rainbow of bruises. For a brief moment, he had an unsettling sense of deja vu; would someone be waiting at the bottom of the stairs (again) to tell him that Mr. Crawley was dead (again) when he eventually went in search of breakfast? "Don't be an idiot, Thomas," he half muttered to himself as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and pulled himself into a seated position. He coughed hoarsely as he searched the nightstand by his bed for a morning smoke to chase away the burgeoning headache, but much to his dismay, none were to be found. With a sharp inhalation of air through his nose, he thought with bemusement, _Now! There's the tragic start to the day that you've been waiting for_!

Although he was never particularly keen upon the idea of completing a day of hard work, the idea of staying in bed with his thoughts was more than he cared to forbear. Besides, he was now beginning to regret being so forthright with Mr. Carson the previous night. No doubt, he thought as he found himself seized by a second fit of coughing, the conservative butler secretly cringed at his overly emotional underling and had wished nothing more than for Barrow to quit his sniveling.

Resolving to get on with the day, Barrow exited the room and quite nearly collided with one of the hall boys. "Oy, you! Mind where you're going!" he bellowed in a tone that was far sharper than was beneficial for his now pounding headache. The boy (_Daniel? Donald? It was something starting with a "D"_) stood bolt right at attention, clearly dreading the reprimand that was forthcoming.

"Sorry, Mr. Barrow! I thought you'd be lying in for the day," he (_Lawrence! That's it! Now, what sort of parent would spell "Lawrence" with a "D"?_) said apologetically.

Deep down, Barrow knew that he was being a right git for being so nasty to the boy, but it was important that standards be maintained, wasn't it? "Well, nobody asked you to let anyone lie in for the day!"

"Mr. Carson said you weren't to be disturbed," replied Lawrence, his face growing crimson.

_Wonderful. He probably thinks I'm some sort of limp-wristed fairy who can't pull himself together. Bah, I should have never told him all that rot._

Deep in thought, Barrow gradually realized that he was being watched intently by the hall boy, who was now nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Well? Don't you have some work you need to be doing?" he harrumphed.

"Yes, Mr. Barrow."

"Well, then get on with it!"

"Yes, Mr. Barrow." Looking relieved to finally escape his sour-faced superior, the boy scurried down the corridor as quickly as his legs would carry him.

"That wasn't very kind of you, Mr. Barrow," stammered a meek yet stern voice from behind.

"If I wanted your opinion on how kind I should be, I would _ask_ for it, Mr. Molesely," he huffed as he turned to face the other man.

"I'm not afraid of you"

"Well, I don't expect you to be. But, I would jolly well like it for you to let me alone."

Joseph Molesely narrowed his eyes with a look that Barrow couldn't quite place, "You're fortunate that she still cares about you even though you don't deserve it."

Barrow wrinkled his nose, for he knew exactly who the _she_ was to whom Molesely was now referring and he knew that the other man was probably quite correct in his assessment. "Well, she certainly has a knack for picking hard-luck cases, don't she?" He knew that the insult was as damaging to himself as it was to Molesely, but he couldn't help smirking as he waited for the other man to flinch.

But no flinching was to be had. Instead, Molesely spoke in a tone that tunneled its way to Barrow's core, "Why Miss Baxter would consider you a friend after everything you've done, I'll never know."

As he walked away, Barrow quietly muttered to himself, "Well, I don't know why she would either."

**Author's Note: A much shorter chapter this time around, but I really wanted to capture Thomas's annoying habit of backsliding every time he seems to make a breakthrough emotionally. What? You didn't think that a single heart-to-heart with Mr. Carson was going to do the trick, did you?**


	3. Chapter 3

"There has to be one around here somewhere," muttered Thomas Barrow as he rifled through a sideboard in the Servants Hall. Naturally, the desired item wasn't to be found in that drawer given that Barrow had already searched it three times by this point.

Ever since he had entered the hall like an off-kilter whirling dervish on a mission, Anna and John Bates had felt themselves volleyed between compassion and annoyance. Clearly, something was bothering the man, but experience had taught the Bateses to tread carefully where Thomas Barrow was concerned. It had become quite clear to everyone downstairs that something was on the under butler's mind, but what it was, neither Anna nor John knew.

"What in the world are you looking for?" Anna finally entreated as she set her darning down upon the table top.

Looking over his shoulder, Barrow pantomimed holding a cigarette between his fingers, "Got a headache."

"If you need a powder, they're in the kitchen. You know that."

Rolling his eyes as though he were dealing with a naïve child, Barrow retorted, "Do you have any idea what's in those powders? Yeah, me neither! Some nice, healthy tobacco; that's what I need to get rid of this blasted headache."

The figure seated by Anna's side made a sharp snorting sound through his nostrils as he folded down the top half of his newspaper. Up to this point, John Bates had been endeavoring to ignore Barrow's antics, but even he lacked the stoic fortitude to allow such a comment to go by unremarked. "You don't _seriously_ believe that," he deadpanned in a tone that was more statement than question.

"I smoke: no headache. I don't smoke: headache. That's _science_!"

"Science?! I swear, Thomas, sometimes you can be such an idi—"

But Bates was unable to finish his statement, for none other than Lord Grantham had entered the room, "Ah, Barrow! There you are. Carson just told me. Dreadfully sorry to hear about your father. Of course, you may have as much time off as you need to attend the funeral."

The Bateses, having sprung from their chairs like spring-loaded jack-in-a-boxes upon the Earl's entrance, exchanged identical looks of shock.

"Thank you, m'Lord, but that really isn't necessary. My father and I," his cheeks momentarily flushed with embarrassment, "we weren't particularly close. I don't think there's much need for me to go."

"Are you quite certain?" asked Lord Grantham as he furrowed his brow, clearly concerned for the young man for whom he had, over the years, developed a soft spot in his heart for reasons none of the staff could quite glean. He hesitated for a brief moment before venturing further in a voice that was too low for the others in the room to hear, "Is this about your sister? Carson suggested that you weren't getting along, but surely that's something you can work through?"

Barrow found himself struck by a sudden wave of fear and panic. Although he had managed to gather that his lordship had in some way orchestrated his return to Downton Abbey, Barrow wasn't entirely certain how much Lord Grantham knew regarding the reasons behind his near banishment. But, surely if anyone upstairs was even remotely aware of his secret, he would be standing in line at a soup kitchen or busting rocks on a prison labor crew. Not working as under butler to Lord Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham!

"Barrow?"

"Yes, m'Lord, I'm quite certain," said Barrow with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Well, if you change you mind." Nodding to Mr. and Mrs. Bates, Lord Grantham exited the room.

The quiet in the Servants Hall persisted for several minutes before Anna finally ventured to break the silence, "Thomas? Why didn't you say anything?"

"It's fine," he lied.

"But it's your father—"

"I'm _fine_," he lied again, this time with enough force that he hoped it would convince both Anna and himself that he was being truthful.

"Look, Thomas." And now it was Bates starting in on him. "We only mean to be help—"

"Did you tell him?!" Barrow suddenly interrupted with an accusatory note in his voice.

"Tell him? What? About your father? Mr. Carson told him! You know that! We only just found out ourselves!"

"Not about my father," hissed Barrow with a mixture of fear and anger in his eyes. "Did you tell him about _me_? Is that how he knows?"

"What?!" replied Bates incredulously, "You don't honestly believe that anyone here doesn't already know about _that_ do you? I hate to burst the little fantasy soap bubble you've conjured for yourself, Thomas, but he's known for _years_."

"Well, why do I even have a job if that's true?!"

"The hell if I know!" Bates bellowed in exasperation, "But obviously he doesn't care. For Pete's sake, he even gave you a promotion!"

"But that's just because," and even as he said it, Barrow realized how moronic he sounded, "I'm really good at playing cricket."

"Good God, Thomas. You really are an idi—"

"Mr. Bates!" interrupted Anna warningly. Turning to Barrow, she continued more warmly, "Thomas, is there anything that we can do to help? We really are truly sorry for your loss, aren't we Mr. Bates?"

"Indeed," her husband replied with genuine sincerity and with more than a little sheepishness at having been dragged into another argument with the invariably temperamental Barrow. Softening his expression he repeated his wife's question, "Is there anything that we can do to help?"

Looking rather chagrined himself, for he had hoped to spend the day unnoticed and unremarked upon, Barrow quietly mumbled, "If you want to help me, you can start by helping me find a pack of smokes."

Bates sighed, "You know that Jimmy and Miss O'Brien were the only members of the staff who smoked around here, 'sides from you that is. And they're—"

"And they're gone," finished Barrow glumly.

"Why don't I get you a powder?" asked Anna.

"That's okay. I'll be all right," came the reply as Barrow drifted out of the room.

**Author's Note: I promise that I won't be ending every chapter with Thomas doing his best Eeyore impression, but he's got some inner demons he's going to need to work through if he's going to quit being such a jerk all the time.**


	4. Chapter 4

"Thomas! What are you doing _here_? You know men aren't allowed to be in the Women's Corridor!" exclaimed a rather flustered Phyllis Baxter to the figure lying face-down on her bed.

"Your sheets smell nicer than mine," he sniffled into the pillow without bothering to raise his head, "Why don't my sheets smell nice?"

"Probably because you smoke like you're the second coming of the Industrial Revolution! Now, get up, would you?!"

"Don't wanna," he whined, but he sat up nevertheless, his left cheek now crisscrossed with creases from where the fabric had pressed into his flesh.

Making note of her friend's red-rimmed eyes, Baxter asked sympathetically, "What's wrong, Thomas? Did something happen?"

"Mr. Molesley _yelled_ at me."

"Oh, did he just?" replied Baxter with a twinkle in her eye as she tried her best not to laugh, "I somehow find that rather doubtful."

"Okay, fine," pouted Barrow, "he didn't exactly yell. But he did scold me. And I don't need to be scolded. Not with the sort of day that I've been having."

"What sort of day have you been having?"

"Doesn't matter," he replied in that tone of voice that clearly said that it _did_ matter.

"It does to me."

Instead of answering, he fidgeted for a bit at a stray thread that had worked its way loose from his shirt cuff. His shirt was white just like all of the shirts that he wore for work, but for some odd reason, the thread was a pale blue. _Now, where in the world did you come from_?

"Thomas?"

"Are you going to get married?"

Baxter shook her head in confusion, "Am I going to— What?!"

"Are you and Mr. Molesley going to get married? I bet you are. I bet you're going to get married and have piles of babies and be all happy and leave me here on me own, aren't you?" he whined in a single, continuous breath.

Rolling her eyes towards the ceiling, Baxter tried to keep a straight face as she answered teasingly, "Yes, that's exactly it. I'm going to have lots of babies with Mr. Molesley—"

"I knew it!" he responded earnestly even though deep down he knew that he was being mocked.

"Oh, for the love of— Thomas! I'm 47 years old! I'm just a bit past my baby making years, you silly goose! And as for Mr. Molesley, let's wait for him to ask me _first_ before you start worrying about whether or not I'm going to marry him, shall we?"

"He's a fool if he doesn't ask you."

"Just a minute ago— Ugh! You're being ridiculous."

"Am not."

"You're acting like a four-year-old."

"Am not," he said as he stuck out his tongue in mock petulance.

Rubbing her temples, trying to assuage the headache that was swiftly coming on, Baxter let out a strangled cry of utter frustration, "Thomas!"

She may have stomped out of the room if it wasn't for the fact that Barrow was now looking up at her with tears rolling down his face. "My dad died," he finally managed to whisper in between jagged inhalations of breath.

Baxter furrowed her brow in sympathy as she so often did when it came to Thomas Barrow, "Oh, Thomas. I'm sorry—"

"Don't say that you're sorry. People keep saying they're sorry like my father was some wonderful person who loved me very much and who I should miss very much. As if they knew him! As if they know me! And, no, he didn't love me _very much_. So, I don't know why I'm supposed to miss him or why I'm supposed to be sad now that he's gone!" He spat out the words as though each one was an angry hornet buzzing inside of his mouth.

"Thomas," Baxter began in an even tone, "I'm not sorry for your father. I'm sorry for _you_ because _you're _hurting." She paused, waiting for a sardonic retort, but when none came, she continued, "Thomas, I've known you since you were a babe in nappies! You aren't supposed to be anything or anybody but _you_ as far as I'm concerned!"

Sniffling as he wiped his face with the back of his gloved hand, he mumbled with semi-humility, "I don't know why you put up with me."

"From where else would all the drama in my life come?" she teased good-naturedly.

"Mr. Carson expects me to go to the funeral. He even has his lordship bugging me to go."

"Will you?"

Seeming disinclined to commit to an answer, Barrow shrugged his shoulders. "I dunno," he finally replied, "it's not like Maggie is particularly eager to see me. Last time we talked, I had to practically come groveling to her 'cause things were falling apart here. And you know what she said?"

Baxter shook her head.

"She said that while she'd _love_ to help, she just couldn't have me hanging around trying to _infect_ the boys! Can you bloody— Can you believe that? Infect! Like I'm some sort of degenerate low life."

Baxter sighed, "I can't say I'm surprised."

"What do you mean?"

She offered him a sad half-smile, "You didn't really believe that you were the first person I contacted when I got out of prison, did you?" She continued in a high-pitched, mocking tone, "'Oh, Phyllis! How could I _possibly_ allow a hardened criminal to be around my precious, darling little boys!'" Returning to her normal voice, now tinged with no small measure of indignation, Baxter huffed, "Her _darling_ little boys are both in their mid-twenties and should have left the bleeding nest years ago, if you ask me!"

Doubling over with laughter, Barrow barely managed to gasp out, "Oh, God! I forgot how old they were! The way she acts, you'd think that at any moment a stranger is going to offer them a toffee apple in exchange for—"

"Thomas!" yelled Baxter, nearly hyperventilating with laughter.

She collapsed down onto the bed and wrapped her arm around her friend, giving his arm a loving squeeze. He continued to giggle for a stretch, before finally sighing and resting his head on her shoulder. They sat like that in silence for several minutes before Barrow spoke again.

"My dad died," he said quietly.

"I know, Love." she said as she kissed his forehead. "I'm sorry."


	5. Chapter 5

_He's known for years_. The implication had haunted Barrow ever since he and Bates had another one of their increasingly banal quarrels earlier that day. As he chewed at his right thumb nail—a lousy stand-in for a wee bit of lovely tobacco (_nature's nectar_, he thought to himself without an ounce of irony)—he mulled over Bates's words and concluded that they were absurd. Those aristocratic types were all about keeping tradition and maintaining the status quo, weren't they?

He chuckled to himself. _He's known for years. Right. And I'll bet every time he's ever volunteered me to valet for Sir Whosit and Lord Whatsit, he was sealing the deal by telling them, Oh, yes! Barrow here will give you a jolly good roger—_

"Is something funny, Mr. Barrow?" asked Daisy, interrupting the under butler's train of thought. "I'm glad that you're happy; you've been looking so sad lately."

Doing his best to offer something resembling a genuine smile, for Daisy was one of those rare people whom he liked enough to care about their opinion, he popped another pastry in his mouth—his third since coming into the kitchen offering to help prepare for the afternoon garden party—and replied, "Just remembering a joke someone told me is all, Daisy."

"Here's a joke for you, Mr. Barrow," bellowed a rather red-faced Mrs. Patmore, "Did you hear the one about the under butler who was skinned alive by the cook because he kept eating all the _petits four_?"

Licking his fingers, his face a portrait of angelic innocence—if not for a devilish grin—Barrow meekly replied, "Uh, no. Can't say I'm familiar with that one, Mrs. Patmore." He had always liked Beryl Patmore, for she somehow knew exactly how to make him feel safe enough to not hide who he was completely. And, although she never really explained what she meant, he didn't need her to translate when she told him, many years ago, that he reminded her of her nephew Archie.

"Well, you're going to be if you eat any more of the _éclairs_!" And with just a few flourishing slices of a her knife, she deftly filleted the pheasant she had been holding by the neck.

Barrow laughed, grateful to both Mrs. Patmore and Daisy for offering a distraction from everyone asking about the funeral.

"Are you really not going to your father's funeral?" inquired Daisy innocently.

_For the love of— _"What of it if I don't?!" he demanded sourly, his precariously good mood now dashed.

"Well, he's your father, ain't he? He's your family."

He could feel the fire building in the pit of his belly; it burned and raged and drove him to lash out before anyone could have the chance to hurt him. Narrowing his eyes, he purred with acidic dryness, "Aren't you an orphan or something? What could you possibly know about having a family?"

Years ago, such a nasty tongue-lashing would have sent the girl scuttling away with her tail tucked between her legs, but ever since she began studying to take the matriculation exam, Daisy had found a new sense of confidence. "I know lots about having a family," she said as she looked him directly in the eye. And with a smiling nod towards the woman who had been a mentor and a mother to her for over a decade, she continued, "I've got Mr. Mason and Mrs. Patmore, don't I?"

"Oh, Daisy!" sniffed a weepy Mrs. Patmore who dapped at her eyes with the corner of her apron as she smiled broadly. "What a lovely thing to say!"

_Since when did Daisy become so good at delivering a punch to the gut? _ The words stung because they were undoubtably true. Whereas he had become alienated from the only family he had ever known, Daisy had managed to forge her own with people who genuinely loved her.

Unable to raise his eyes up to look at either of the women standing across from him, Barrow traced an index finger along the stitching of his glove and muttered a very quiet, "Sorry, Daisy. Sorry, Mrs. Patmore."

"My, my," said Mrs. Patmore with neither excessive cruelty nor excessive kindness, "You must be feeling guilty if you're offering up apologies so easily, Mr. Barrow."

He nodded at the floor for he still didn't have the courage to raise his head to look at anyone. "I really don't know if I'll be going to the funeral, Daisy. I'm not close with my family. Not like you are," he said with a slight gesture of his hand towards Mrs. Patmore.

Daisy smiled sympathetically. "Here," she said, offering another miniature _éclair _to Barrow.

"Oy!" yelled Mrs. Patmore as Barrow quickly gulped down the chocolate glazed delicacy without chewing, "If you keep that up, there will be none left for the garden party!"

"She made me do it!" exclaimed Barrow, happy to have the earlier awkwardness expelled.

"You're going to get fat," teased Daisy, grinning mischievously.

"Hey! Whose side are you on? That wounds me; it really does," shot back Barrow as he melodramatically clutched at his chest. "Anyhow," he continued, "I wouldn't be eating so much if the rest of you would do the honorable thing and take up smoking so's to save me a trip to the market!"

"A trip to the market! Heaven forfend!" laughed Mrs. Patmore, "I'm afraid you'll just have to maintain your vices without our help, Mr. Barrow!"

Just as Barrow was getting ready to lob a rejoinder, a knock came from the doorway to the kitchen. "Excuse me, Mr. Barrow," said Andy apologetically, "Sorry to interrupt."

Trying to not smile too broadly—but failing entirely—Barrow assured him, "No need to apologize, Andy. What is it?"

"Speaking of vices," muttered Mrs. Patmore under her breath.

Andy returned Barrow's bright smile, unaware that the simple gesture was now causing the under butler's hands to sweat and his heart to beat just a wee bit faster. "His lordship wishes to see you, sir. He's in the library."

"Oh," said Barrow, the smile now frozen on his face. _He's known for years. _"Thank you, Andy."

"My pleasure, Mr. Barrow. Oh, Mrs. Carson asked me to pop into town to post a few letters. You need anything at the market while I'm down there?"

_He's known for years. _"No, nothing I can think of. Thank you, Andy."

"Well, I'll be off, then."

"Okay, Andy." _He's known for years_.

**Author's Note: This chapter was surprisingly tough for me to write—I suppose it's because I really want to get on to the next chapter. Because really—who wouldn't love to have a little tête-à-tête with one's employer about one's personal life? Especially when said personal life can land one in jail? Loads of fun, eh?**

**Author's Note Part Deux: Yes, that's right. Mrs. Patmore's gaydar was developed thanks to nephew Archie, may he rest in peace. And yup, Mr. Carson and (the former) Mrs. Hughes got hitched (the wedding was lovely by the way! Not a dry eye in the house and the cake was delicious, if Mrs. Patmore does say so herself). And, yessiree, Thomas has got himself a big ol' crush on Andy (and if I was better at writing slash, you can bet that Thomas would be enjoying a grand old time with various combinations of Andy and Jimmy… but, alas, you'll just have to use your imaginations—as will Thomas)**

**Hopefully Temporary Author's Note: There will be a slight delay in posting the next chapter while I do my due diligence as a writer and take care of the typos that seem to sprout only after I've hit the submit button. Mea culpa! I know how much y'all must be wanting to know whether or not poor Thomas will ever get to have his cigarette. Please, rest assured that he will in the most horrifyingly disgusting way imaginable. Insert evil laugh here. **


	6. Chapter 6

As had become his custom ever since entering service, Barrow feigned what he fancied to be a not halfway decent impression of an upper crust accent and inquired politely, "You wished to see me, m'Lord?" Endeavoring to portray as dignified and professional a demeanor as possible, he stood as straight and tall as he could with his shoulders back and a dispassionate countenance upon his face.

Turning towards him, the earl smiled warmly, "Ah, Barrow! Yes, I, uh, just wanted offer my apologies for my lack of discretion earlier today. Carson left me with the impression that news of your father's passing had already reached everyone downstairs. If Bates hadn't brought the matter to my attention, I'm afraid that I would have never known. He indicated that you were," and he paused for a moment, searching Barrow's poker face for a tell, "_upset_."

_Bates. Of course, it was Bates. Typical, just typical. _Ever grateful that proper decorum for a servant negated any need to express sentiments beyond, _Why, yes, m'Lord, I do so love toiling from dawn 'til dusk in the pursuit of your comfort! Thank you for momentarily acknowledging my existence_, Barrow simply endeavored to maintain the same self-possessed look upon his face. "Upset, m'Lord?" he said as smoothly as he could despite an army of butterflies at war inside his belly, "That's kind of Mr. Bates to be so concerned for my well being, m'Lord. But truly the only thing to put a damper on my day was missing breakfast—and Mrs. Patmore has been kind enough to sort me out in that regard."

"Breakfast?"

Why was it that whenever Barrow was caught in a lie or a half truth, all it took was a simple repetition of his own words to leave him feeling stripped naked and vulnerable to the world? "Yes, m'Lord," he said, finding himself suddenly wishing that he hadn't devoured quite so many _éclairs _in rapid succession.

"Not your father? Not the— Not the telegram from your sister?"

_Oh, right. That._ "I wouldn't wish to trouble you with such insignificant matters, m'Lord."

His lordship offered Barrow a half-smile as if to acknowledge the stalemate they now faced as it pertained to the under butler's emotions, "Well, I just thought I should let you know," he said as he nodded his head indicating that Barrow was free to go.

Barrow paused in the doorway as if he were being compelled by an invisible force. _He known for years_. If he was ever going to ask, now was the time, for nothing gives a man carte blanche for asking questions like losing a father. Feeling as though he were speaking not so much out of his own accord, but by a nagging compulsion that had haunted him not only since that morning but—if he was to be truthful with himself—his entire tenure at Downton, he asked, "Have you— Have you always known, m'lord? Have you always known about me? About _what _I am?" _Please, God, if you have any mercy, you will let the ground swallow me whole._

A lifetime could have passed in the few short moments that it took Lord Grantham to answer. "Thomas," he said as gently as possible, "You're not the most _subtle_ young man when it comes to this sort of thing. So, yes. Yes, I did know about you."

Fighting back a now overwhelming urge to vomit as he found himself hit by a building wave of nausea, Barrow pressed on, "But, why? Why put up with— with someone like _me_ when it would have been simple enough to sack me? I haven't— Well, I haven't exactly been a model employee over the years. If you knew about— about _that— _I just don't understand. Why not be rid of me?"

His lordship appeared as though he wished to say something of substance but instead only hedged, "It didn't seem necessary. I've seen how you've been working hard to make up for your past mistakes. And after the war and losing— and losing Lady Sybil, I suppose I just didn't want there to be any more ugliness. Downton has seen far too much of it."

Barrow began to regret pressing the issue, for the direction of the conversation was clearly re-opening a wound for Lord Grantham—a wound that had never and would never completely heal. Hoping to steer the conversation in a more positive direction, he politely queried, "Any news from America, m'Lord?"

Having been momentarily lost in his own thoughts, his lordship immediately brightened immensely. "Yes! Indeed there has! A letter arrived from Sybbie this morning as a matter of fact!" Crossing the room over to his desk, he reached into a drawer of the secretary and retrieved a large dove grey envelope. Carefully unfolding the enclosed parchment, he began to read aloud: "Dear Donk: How are you? This is Sybbie. Your granddaughter. I miss you and Granny and Great Granny and Auntie Mary and Auntie Edith very much. Can George and Marigold come to Boston to play? Please send candy. Daddy says they will rot my teeth. Love and kisses, Sybbie. Your granddaughter."

As the contents of the letter were read, Barrow found himself no longer able to maintain his usually impassive visage and by the time Lord Grantham finished the recitation, he was grinning happily. "It was very kind of her to let you know that she's your granddaughter in case you'd have forgotten," he joked with spurious seriousness.

His lordship laughed heartily, but as his laughter trailed off, it began to become clear that something troubling was on his mind.

_Perhaps he's realized that he's made a mistake keeping me around. _Barrow could feel his earlier nervousness and unease returning. For a brief moment, it had felt like they would simply go on with life pretending that Barrow had never opened his mouth, but now with the way the earl began to pace the room, it seemed unlikely. "M'lord? Is everything alright?" he asked, feeling as though he were signing his own death warrant.

Instead of answering straightaway, his lordship drummed his fingers upon a credenza and contemplated one particularly ornate crystal decanter of amber-hued liquid. His lips moved ever so slightly as though he were engaged in a private conversation, weighing his options for how he might frame his next few words. In a voice indicative of a man wishing to confess a mortal sin, he solicited, "Do you really wish to know why I kept you on?"

_Yes. No. Maybe. I don't know. _"Yes, m'Lord, I really do."

Taking a deep breath as though he were preparing to dive below the surface of a dark, frozen lake, his lordship spoke with more openness than Barrow ever thought possible, "When Bates came to me and told me of the _troubles_ you were having with James, I jokingly told him that— oh, what was it that I said?— I jokingly told him that if I screamed blue murder every time someone tried to kiss me at Eton, I would have been hoarse within a month."

Barrow smiled nervously, unsure how to respond.

"But the truth is, I only ever screamed once. I— What? No! No, _not _like that. I don't mean _that_."

"Sorry, m'Lord," mumbled Barrow sheepishly.

"The truth is, I only ever screamed once because—" He paused as though summoning the strength to continue, "My second year at Eton, I had a lab partner in chemistry. Algernon Huxley. Nicest kid you could ever possibly meet: everybody's friend, just a great fellow through-and-through. And, well, you see— one afternoon when we were studying for exams— he leaned over and, uh, well he kissed me."

If it was possible for him to swallow at that moment, he would have—but Barrow found that his mouth had gone completely dry, his throat parched.

"And so I screamed blue murder, so to speak. I called Algernon—my _friend_—every cruel word and name that my fourteen-year-old mind could summon. I told him that he was disgusting, that he made me sick, that he belonged in prison, that he should be flogged; you name it, I said it. And I made it abundantly clear that I intended to go to the headmaster, that I intended to expose Algernon to the world. But I never got the chance because the next morning they found him," and he let out a soft, low sigh before uttering the final line of his confession, "They found him hanging in his dormitory room. He had— He had hanged himself because I was too cowardly. I was too cowardly and too concerned with how others might perceive me that I allowed my friend to die as a result."

"Is that why? You thought that I might harm myself? Is that why you kept me on?" Barrow had no idea how he was even able to form words given that he was certain he had ceased breathing long ago.

"Would you have?"

"But, it was _years _ago! Is that truly the reason? That I somehow reminded you—" he didn't know how to continue.

The earl nodded his head thoughtfully as though making a resolution to finally free himself of a great burden, "When we lost our— our son, I thought maybe I was being punished. That all of my indiscretions, all my sins were coming home to roost and that God was pointing a finger at me: 'Robert Crawley, judge not lest ye be judged!' And I swore to myself that I would do better, that I would never again cast that first stone. Losing that tiny little boy," he closed his eyes briefly as though he were momentarily lost in the memory, "losing that perfect little boy, losing my beautiful Sybil— it's not something— losing a child is not something one ever recovers from. People see you breathing and moving about in the world, but all they are seeing is a ghost. I don't think I could bear to be responsible for another loss."

"But it wasn't your— I told— I told Mr. Bates that I have a cousin in Bombay. I could have gone there. I could have— I don't know; I don't know what I would have done if I had been made to leave here. Were you truly concerned for me? I don't know if I would have done _something_; I don't know."

"Despite whatever rivalries the two of you have had, Bates was concerned enough about you to come talk to me. That spoke to me of the seriousness of the situation. So, yes, I suppose I was concerned that you might harm yourself."

Barrow nodded, unsure of how or even if he should respond, but finally managed to admit with great reluctance, "I'm not sure what I would have done. I— I would be lying if I said that the thought hadn't crossed my mind. But I truly don't know if I would have gone through with it. I'm sorry if I've disappointed you."

"Why would that disappoint me?"

"I— I have no idea. I just seem to disappoint people a lot is all. I guess— I guess I feel like I need to be sorry. I don't know."

They were quiet for several minutes—the rhythmic swing of the grandfather clock's pendulum the only sound—as they waited for the tension to dissipate from the room. At long last, Barrow broke the deafening silence, "Do you really think I should go to the funeral?"

"Does my opinion necessarily matter? Do you wish to go?"

"I— I don't— It's my sister, you see. She practically expects me to throw myself on top of the coffin begging my father for his forgiveness. And I just don't think— I don't think I can—"

His lordship nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps," he said softly, "it isn't _you_ who should be seeking forgiveness."

"No, m'lord?"

"But, do you think you might be able to _offer_ forgiveness instead?"

Thomas sighed, finally letting out the breath he didn't realize he had been holding. "I don't know. I think— I think I can try."

"Thank you."

Out in the hall, the toll of the dressing gong could be heard, and Lord Robert Crawley, Earl of Grantham nodded his head, indicating that Mr. Thomas Barrow was free to go.

**Author's Note: Well, I don't know about you, but that was just a bit emotionally draining. But huzzah for turning points, eh?**

**Author's Note: May 10, 2015. Made a small edit to Lord Grantham's speech to (I hope) improve the tone.**


	7. Chapter 7

"Give us a hand, would you, Miss Baxter?" Barrow asked politely as he indicated to the other end of a long strip of gilded cloth. Each pulling at his or her designated end of the damask runner, they carefully arranged the cloth along the center of the banquet table. At either end, they placed identical, gladiola-filled vases to provide not only the right aesthetic touch but also as a means of preventing the table linens from flying off at the slightest breeze.

"Oh, that is just lovely," said Baxter admiringly.

"It's a bit ridiculous, if you ask me," piped up Andy, who was carrying a large _canapé_ platter containing a variety of Mrs. Patmore's finest _hors d'oeuvres. _"Who ever heard of having a garden party this late in the afternoon? They've only got another hour or two of sunlight tops! What's the sense of tripping around in the dark?"

Barrow shrugged, "Apparently, Lady Mary read that candlelit garden parties are all the rage with this-or-that Hollywood socialite, so now she wants to get in on the craze."

"More like crazy, if you want to know what I think," replied Andy with a shake of his head, "Does she really intend for us to light eight hundred 'n somethin' candles? She's going to set the whole place on fire!"

"Oh, no. That's her sister's department."

"Huh?"

"Never mind," said Barrow with a smile, "before your time here. Look, take some advice from your old Uncle Thomas and try not to expend too much energy trying to figure out the Crawleys. Because as soon as you think you've figured how they work, they'll up and surprise you."

"I'll try to remember that, Mr. Barrow." Looking over his shoulder to the servants entrance of the great house, "Well, I best be getting back to work."

As Andy trotted back to the house, Barrow could hear a muffled laugh from behind. "What? Oh, just spit it out!"

Baxter, trying to regain her composure but being only marginally successful, finally managed to say, "_Uncle Thomas_? Really? You want him to call you, _Uncle Thomas_?!"

"Oh. Just— Just shut up. Would you?"

"I'm sorry," she said with a laugh.

"You always think that you're so clever," he said with a scowl.

"Please, don't be like that," she said now with sincerity, "I'm sorry for teasing you. It's just—"

Finding that he couldn't maintain a sour mood for long when he was around the indomitable Phyllis Baxter, Barrow conceded, "Okay, fine! You're right. I'm absolutely ridiculous. God, I can't believe I said that. _Uncle Thomas_?! Ugh!" Eager to change the subject to something new, he asked, "What are you doing out here, anyhow? Shouldn't you be helping her ladyship change? Dressing gong rang at least fifteen minutes ago."

"Didn't you hear?" she asked with surprise.

"Obviously not, or I wouldn't be asking," he retorted with a roll of his eyes.

"Lady Grantham went to York this morning for a new haircut. She'll be here in about an hour."

"Oh, I hope she's not taking cues from Lady Mary!" he said with a slight cringe.

"Oh? Why not? I think Lady Mary's hair looks quite fetching."

Barrow shook his head decisively. "It makes her look like a mushroom," he said matter-of-factly. He returned to his work, carefully placing candles of varying sizes at regularly spaced intervals, and although his duty as under butler prevented him from saying so, he had to admit that the whole endeavor did indeed feel ridiculous.

"Excuse me? Mr. Barrow?" inquired Andy, who was precariously balancing a silver tray in each hand, one with crystal wine goblets and the other with porcelain tea cups, "Where should I put these?"

"Oh, let me give you a hand with those!" offered Barrow with a smile. "Let's put this one on _this_ table. And, hmm, how about we put this one on the table over _there_."

Once the items were properly arranged, Andy turned to Barrow and thanked him. "I don't know what I would do if you weren't looking out for me, sir."

Barrow blushed, "Oh, well, you know. Uncle Thomas, here to help!"

"Thank you, sir. I better get back and see what else needs to be brought out."

As soon as Andy was out of earshot, Barrow let out a strangled moan of despair, "What is wrong with me?! Phyllis, please be a friend and find something to gag me with? I mean, really, why can't I just _stop talking_?"

Smiling at him with equal measures of sympathy, pity, and humor, Baxter did her best to offer some encouragement, "I'm sure he doesn't think it's anything out of the ordinary beyond a little, oh, eccentricity."

"Eccentricity? Eccentricity?!"

She grimaced.

"Eccentricity is a word people use to describe a bloke with 15-inch-long finger nails—the sort who lives with 30-something cats and sleeps with a ventriloquist dummy whom he likes to call, 'Mum' and/or 'sweetheart' depending on the weather," he ranted.

"You have a very impressive—and yet frighteningly precise—understanding of these things," Baxter replied wrinkling her nose. "Okay, not _eccentricity_. What's a better word for 'old man who wants all the bright young things to think he's the bee's knees'? Bee's knees—that's what the young people are saying these days, isn't it?"

"How should I know? Apparently, I'm an old man," Barrow pouted.

Offering a patient smile, Baxter raised an eyebrow as she prodded, "Thomas? What's going on with you? I'm not objecting, mind you, but I don't think I've ever seen you quite so, uh, animated—at least, not since I came here." She waited for a response, but when none came, she pushed forward, "It's perfectly fine if you don't wish to talk about your father—I just don't want to see you hurt yourself by bottling all of it up inside of you."

He stroked his chin, carefully considering what she had just said, before admitting, "I really am talking too much, aren't I? I must be driving you batty."

"You could never drive me batty."

And now it was Barrow's turn to raise an eyebrow.

Baxter laughed, "Okay, you can drive me batty. But not by being yourself. I really wish that you would open up more."

"I thought that I was."

"Maybe with me, but I still see you skulking around in dark corners plotting plots and scheming schemes. There are some very kind people here; you ought to know that by now."

She waited for Barrow to respond, but at that moment, he appeared to be preoccupied with examining the stitching on his glove. She was about to say something further, when Barrow spoke at last, "Did you know that Bates talks about me to his lordship? Claims to be concerned for me, but—"

"I'm sure he talks to Lord Grantham about lots of things. He is his valet after all."

Barrow nodded, acknowledging her point, "I've always suspected that he was spying on the rest of us downstairs. Miss O'Brien and I used to try everything that we could to get him sacked."

"Miss O'Brien? That's the woman I replaced, yes? Were the two of you friends?"

Barrow winced; even though he despised the woman for turning on him so cruelly, there was still a part within his heart that missed her a great deal. "I thought so. But not so much in the end. What have you been told about her?"

"Daisy tells me that I'm much nicer."

"You are. But that could be said about just about anybody. I don't— I don't mean that 'just about anybody' could be said to be nicer than O'Brien. I mean: _you're_ nicer than just about anybody."

"I don't know about that. The people here seem rather fond of Anna."

"She isn't always as nice as people think," he said with a frown, "neither is her husband."

"Are you certain all of this animosity isn't just a bit one sided?"

He shook his head. "Did you know, before you came here, Anna pulled aside Miss Braithwaite—she was Lady Grantham's maid for about an hour-and-a-half; don't ask—to tell her about how, 'Oh, that Thomas Barrow! You better watch out for him! He's trouble and does all kinds of naughty things!' She says it as if I'm not standing just a few feet away! As if I couldn't possibly overhear her! But to my face, she acts as though she's my friend," he recalled with no small amount of anger.

"Well, did you tell her? Did you tell her how much it hurt you?"

He shook his head. "Uh, no. No, I didn't. I, uh, I made it so Anna would get the blame for ruining a scarf, uh, some sort of scarf-thing of her ladyship's. Right? Made it sound like Anna was being cruel to Braithwaite."

"Thomas?"

"Yeah?"

"That makes no sense. You can't expect people to know what you're thinking, what motivates you if you're unwilling to say something out loud. You can't expect people to read your mind."

"No! But it does! It does make sense. _Quit looking at me like that_. Before— It used to be me and O'Brien against the world. And, I just— I just really wanted to have that back."

Baxter furrowed her brow and ever so slightly shook her head, "Would that have made you happy? You against the world?"

"I don't know. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have to do it all on my own." He paced the courtyard as though he were in a small room with only a finite amount of space to move.

Baxter sighed, for she was beginning to feel as though the two of them were running in circles. "But, why is it even necessary for you to be on your own? Why do you need to be against the world?" She was trying her best to empathize with Barrow, but it was difficult when her own nature was so much more forgiving. "I don't want to negate your feelings, but is it necessarily so bad if Mr. Bates speaks on your behalf to his lordship every so often? I know you've had your disagreements every now-and-then, but if he's only speaking out of concern—"

"Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?" he interrupted.

Baxter looked at him in confusion, not understanding his meaning.

"Phyllis, you're one of the kindest people I've ever known, but sometimes you can be so naïve about how the world works for somebody like me," he scuffed the ground with his foot, trying to think of a way to proceed, "I'm trying not to be angry with you, I really am. But answer me this: when you said that you thought I was brave to want to change myself, what did you mean by that?"

"I'm sorry, Thomas, I don't understand. But I'm trying, I really am," Baxter could feel herself growing uneasy. How easy it was to forget Barrow's capacity for wrath.

"Okay, I'll try to put it another way. Do you think that changing myself is something that I _should_ want to do? Is that why you find me so brave? That I was willing to do whatever it takes to be happy?"

"Thomas, I want nothing more in this world than to see you happy."

"But what does that even mean? You're like Dr. Clarkson, did you know that? You say that you want me to find happiness where I can, but that's just another way of saying, 'So, sorry to hear you're _abnormal_ Thomas. Tough break, old chap. Hope you enjoy a life of celibacy.' You keep telling me that you love me and accept me for who I am, but do you really? Would you be happy for me if I were to live my life, as _me_, in _every way_ that living that life entails?" He could feel his chest heaving with the exertion of this speech, his heart pounding with the anxiety of knowing that he could very well be alienating one of few people he considered to be a friend.

Baxter shook her head, "Thomas, I'm sorry. I want to be able to tell you what you want to hear. But _this_, it's just not— it's just not healthy. I'm sorry. Yes, I think it's brave of you to live with this burden. Yes, I thought it was brave of you to do whatever you could to be free of this burden. But you can't expect me to believe that your life is better or richer because of it. I'm sorry. I just can't." She dabbed at her eyes, where tears were beginning to well from the strength of her competing emotions.

Watching his friend struggle—she wanted to be supportive and yet she could only support him so much—Barrow tried to gentle his tone, "Phyllis, you're one of my truest friends. You've stood beside me even when I've been _horrible_ to you. So, if _you_ can't accept me—and I mean really accept me—how could I ever expect someone like Bates to? He doesn't particularly like me, in case you hadn't noticed. Why would I ever want to trust him with my life? And, yes, this is my life that's on the line. Maybe today he speaks out of concern, but what about tomorrow or the next day?"

Feeling overwhelmed, she sniffled and attempted to plead, "But, Thomas, I _do _accept you."

"No," he said, shaking his head, "you _pity_ me. And that's not the same thing."

"I'm sorry."

Barrow frowned, not at all caring for the direction of the conversation. He knew that he was hurting Baxter by behaving in such a confrontational manner, and that wasn't at all his intention. Endeavoring to lighten the mood, he sniffed, "And, I don't skulk around in dark corners."

"Oh, really? My mistake," replied Baxter with a relieved smile.

They continued working in comfortable silence, walking along the grounds of Downton, placing and lighting candles every ten paces. Without warning, Barrow slapped his neck with a low growl, "Blasted midges! Andy was right. Bad idea having a party outdoors at this hour." He stopped suddenly, and looked around, "Say, where is Andy? He left ages ago!"

"Maybe he's helping Uncle Charles and Auntie Elsie?"

"Oh, shut up, would you?"

Baxter was about to retort, when a stray thought changed her mind. "Uh, Thomas? Earlier, when you were speaking to Andy. You said something about the Crawleys surprising you. What did you mean by that? Did something happen when you spoke to his lordship?"

"Did something happen? Yeah, you could say that. I don't think I've ever seen his lordship so—"

But he was unable to complete the sentiment, for at that moment, Lady Mary stepped through the front door. "Baxter? Mamma just rang from the station. She'll be here in about ten minutes." As she returned to the house, she smiled warmly at Baxter before nodding to Thomas with the ever so slightest hint of distain.

"She's still quite sore with you over the little 'joke' you played on Lord Sinderby. You do realize that, don't you?" admonished Baxter.

Looking like a little boy who had been caught with his hand in the biscuit jar, Barrow deflected, "That really wasn't my fault! It was _his_ butler who called the woman!"

"Oh? And who put him up to it?"

"That's— That's not the point. I didn't force him. Not my fault he got himself completely zozzled."

"So you're saying you didn't help him along the way?"

"I may have poured him a glass. Or two. Possibly the entire bottle," he grinned sheepishly, "But it's not like I held a gun to his head!"

"Would you just admit that you bear _some_ responsibility in the whole matter?"

He gave her an exaggerated scowl before finally relenting, "Okay, I can admit that I bear a teeny, tiny, minuscule share of the responsibility"—he paused for a moment before quickly finishing, "but it really wasn't my fault!"

Baxter smiled patiently as she advised him, "You probably shouldn't let her hear you say that she looks like a mushroom if you ever want to be back on her good side. I— oh, I can't believe I'm telling you this— you do realize that the fun you had on that trip to America—and despite how naïve you think I am, I know _exactly_ what you mean when you go around telling people about how 'different' and 'modern' it is there— You do realize that the _fun_ you had was thanks in no small part to Lady Mary, don't you?"

Barrow blinked with surprise, "You're joking! I mean, I gathered that she had recommended me for the job—but that was just so Mr. Bates wouldn't have to leave Anna behind. Wasn't it?"

Blushing an intense shade of scarlet, Baxter explained, "Word is, she said something about wanting you to enjoy a boat full of, um, handsome stew— handsome strutting stewards."

Barrow couldn't help laughing, "Oh, Phyllis, I'm so sorry! I know you don't approve, but I do have to say that was _very_ thoughtful of Lady Mary!"

Baxter furrowed her brow as was her custom whenever she spoke with Thomas Barrow. "I should go inside and help her ladyship," she said as she walked away, leaving him alone in the candlelight.

**Author's Note: Did you make it all the way to the end of this monster chapter? Good for you! Have a cookie! (Hope you don't mind that you'll need to bake 'em yourself). I had several goals for this chapter. I wanted to: 1) Portray Baxter's support in a manner that isn't out of step with the times. It's important that we remember that Downton Abbey is set in an era when homosexuality was believed to be a mental illness, so "supportive" in those days was very different from what "supportive" is today. 2) Allow Anna's not-so-sweet side to show just a bit. I find it incredibly dull when I see characters portrayed as 100% good (as often happens with Anna) or 100% bad (as often happens with Thomas). Same thing for Baxter. These characters are so much more interesting to me when we can examine them—warts and all—and still find them to be compelling. 3) Fill in some of the gaps that Julian Fellowes has the unfortunate habit of leaving. **


	8. Chapter 8

The party had been, if nothing else, a fair-to-middling success—neither Downton nor any of the guests caught on fire, Lady Grantham returned from the hairdresser without resembling a fungus, and the midges were ignored thanks in large part to the copious amount of alcohol served—however, everyone silently agreed that such things were best left to Hollywood socialites.

Afterwards, Barrow found himself in the small work yard beside the servant's entrance. Only three days prior, he had sat at the wooden picnic table carefully adjusting, mending, and repairing one of the family's many fine clocks. The bench still held the earthy smell of the countless cigarettes that he and O'Brien had smoked together. Vestiges of a life that was no longer within reach.

A thought began to tickle at the back of his mind, and he made his way to the table. Maybe, just maybe, one would be there. He crouched carefully on the ground and— _There you are, you beautiful darling! Oh, you are a sight for sore eyes._

Carefully, he salvaged the remains of a single, mud covered, cigarette butt. It looked as though it had been stubbed out soon after lighting. A break cut prematurely short no doubt. He noted with no small degree of unease that it was not his usual brand but rather one preferred by O'Brien. Somehow, sitting at that table with his nostrils filled with the aroma of their friendship, he found himself missing her. Despite everything that went wrong between them, he still missed her. _I'll go fetch my button box_, she would have said. She never actually did anything with the buttons, but the presence of the button box presented an illusion of productivity that allowed them to gossip late into the night.

He gazed down at the cigarette and whispered a silent _thank you _to God for making Sarah O'Brien a smoker. He raised the accordion-like stick to his lips and—

"Oh, dear Lord! Thomas, please tell me you aren't about to do what I think you're about to do," said Baxter with no small amount of horror in her voice.

Feeling more than a bit mortified, Barrow flung the cigarette away from him. "Um, no. I was just, mmm, tidying up a bit."

"By slinging cigarettes about the yard?"

"You tidy up your way, and I'll tidy up mine."

Baxter rolled her eyes at him, "That was disgusting. You do know that, right?"

Barrow sighed, "Yes, I suspect you're right. Vile in fact. Probably would have died from botulism if I went through with it. I can't remember the last time I went to bed without one. Not sure I can sleep without it."

"Do you want to talk a bit? Maybe if you say what you need to say, you'll be able to get a little shuteye," she suggested.

"Mmm, yes. That might be a good idea. I've got some things on my mind that's for certain."

"Your father?"

"There's that, but also my talk with Lord Grantham."

She nodded as she remembered, "Oh, yes. You were starting to tell me about it when we were interrupted."

"It was so strange seeing him like that," he divulged. "He was so raw. His emotions— his emotions and his honesty, and just everything about him. It was just so raw. Like he had an open wound, but it was inside of him. He told me so many things. Things that I don't think he's told anyone, not even Mr. Bates." He hesitated for a moment before whispering, "I think I'm contagious."

"_What_?"

"Contagious," he repeated more loudly. "I've been talking so much today, been sneezing and coughing all these _emotions_ everywhere like I have an— an _emotional cold_ or something. It's like I have a cold but the germs are everything I think and feel. So, when I went to speak to his lordship, _he _caught my cold," he babbled as he searched for a plausible explanation to his lordship's candor.

"That makes sense," said Baxter without even the slightest hint of derision.

Barrow shot her an askance glance as though she had nonchalantly sprouted a second head, "What? No, it doesn't! If you're going to make fun of me— Honestly, Phyllis! I know you want to be supportive, and I really do appreciate it. But you don't need to agree with every idiotic thing that comes out of my mouth!"

A less patient woman would have rolled her eyes. "I'm not saying that he caught your 'cold'. But it does make sense that he might have picked up on your, well frankly, quite _strong_ emotions and found himself responding in kind. From what I've seen, both Lord and Lady Grantham can be quite empathetic."

He ruminated for a stretch before finally saying, "Did you know they were going to have a little boy?"

"No. I had no idea." By now, Baxter had grown used to the constantly shifting sands of their conversations.

He stared down at his hand, the one bearing the symbol of his shame. He had already revealed so much of himself. From the time he had confided in Carson about the contents of the telegram, it was as though a dam that had resided within him for so many long years had finally burst open allowing his every fear, his every doubt, the power to wash over, to flood, to drown everything and everyone in its path. Maybe, Barrow pondered to himself, that was what caused Lord Grantham to speak so frankly; he was drowning and Barrow was the one holding his head under water. "I never really thought about the baby as something real. When we learned that it— that _he_ had died, I just sort of imagined—I don't know—a vague, squidgy blob, but not a baby. Never an actual baby," he murmured, "It didn't even occur to me that he might grieve for someone that, to me, never even existed."

Baxter looked at him, her face etched with compassion, but Barrow did not know if it was for himself or for Lord Grantham. Perhaps it didn't matter for whom she felt empathy, so long as she felt it. Barrow began to wonder if anyone would be able to say the same thing about him. "His lordship thinks that I should go," he confided.

"Will you?"

"I'm starting to think that maybe I want to, or at least I think that I might want to. I'm not sure which would be worse: going and regretting that I went, or not going and regretting that I stayed. I know what Maggie would say I should do. _God_, she can be such an uptight— I don't think I could ever make her happy. Not even if I was married to someone like Anna and we had a whole mess of perfect little children together."

"Try not to be so hard on her," Baxter said with kindness, "I know that Maggie can be a bit _much_, but she really did try her best with you. I don't think it was easy for her to be a mother to you, but she did try in her own way."

"Yeah, I know. But I think I'd rather have had my mum for a mum and my sister for a sister."

"Do you remember your mum?" The question came soft and gentle like a warm summer breeze.

Thomas closed his eyes and tried to create a vision of the woman who once held him to her breast and sang him lullabies until his eyes grew heavy with sleep. But all he could see were vague images: soft, dark hair that felt like silk upon his cheek, a laugh that sounded like twinkling candle light, but none of it came together to form a complete picture. "No. I wish I could. I remember her being sick. But I can't remember her from before."

Baxter nodded with understanding. Consumption was such a nasty affair. "Your mother," she began softly, "She was very kind. And she was very lovely. And she loved you more than anything or anyone else in the world."

"I wish I could remember her," he said softly trying to fight back tears that threatened to fall for a countless time that day. "There was a footman here. William. His mum died, and I remember just being so angry at the time. So angry. He had his whole life to know her and to be loved by her. And I— I just couldn't understand why _he_ should get to grieve for her when he already had so much more than I ever had. My mum died when I was four. They wouldn't even let me go to her funeral—too young they said—so how was it fair that everyone was gathering around saying _poor William he lost his mum_ when he was so damn lucky to ever even have a mum?"

He looked at Baxter, expecting her to say something, but she only looked at him with kindness as she waited for him to continue in his own good time. "I was angry at him for having a mum he could remember. I was angry at the universe for taking mine before I ever had the chance to really know her. So, I mocked him. I don't even remember what I said, but you know me well enough by now to know that it was cruel."

"What happened?"

Barrow smiled ever so slightly at the memory. "He gave me a rather impressive shiner, that's what happened," he said as he balled up his hand into a fist and pantomimed a punch to his left eye.

"It sounds like you probably earned that black eye."

He sniffed glumly despite knowing that she was right, "I think I liked you better when you were afraid of me."

"Is everything all right out here?" asked a concerned Molesley who, seeming to have materialized out of thin air, had quite clearly caught only the tail end of the ongoing conversation. "Mr. Barrow, if you're bullying her again," he said warningly; however, he did not complete the threat.

"Try to relax before you pull a muscle, Mr. Molesley," replied Barrow sardonically, "We're only having a chat."

"It's fine, Joseph. Really," Baxter said with a reassuring smile. "Go on inside. We'll be in in just a bit."

"Are you sure?" he said as he jutted his chin out in Barrow's general direction.

"Yes, thank you. But there's really no need for alarm."

Once Molesley was out of sight, Barrow let out a laugh. "_Joseph_! Oh, really?! It sounds like the two of you will be married before we know it!"

With only the slightest hint of embarrassment, she shrugged her shoulders in a noncommittal gesture, "I suppose you might be on to something." She sighed as her disposition grew more serious, "Why do you do that?"

"Hmm?" he said, his mind somewhere far from the tiny work yard, "Why do I do what?"

"When you're with me, I see the Thomas that I remember. You have such capacity for openness and warmth. But when— Just now, when Mr. Molesley came out here. It was as if you erected a wall of thorns around you." Looking at him with genuine confusion, she asked, "I know that you _want_ to be happy, that you want to be accepted. Why do you keep pushing everyone away?"

He contemplated her inquiry thoughtfully, for the truth was that he had never really understood it himself. Tilting his head back to look up at the starry night sky, he spoke quietly to the heavens, "I think it's because I have to wear a mask. Everywhere I go, I have to wear a mask and pretend that I'm something, someone that I'm not. Do you— Do you remember when I was a kid?"

"I remember that you were a very sweet little boy." Upon seeing the sharp look that he gave her, Baxter realized that he was in no mood for sugarcoating, "And I remember that you always seemed to be getting in brawls at school. It seemed like you were always coming home with a bloodied nose or a split lip."

"You knew about me even then, didn't you," he asked even though he already knew the answer. "Being 'sweet' has only ever gotten me hurt." He scowled with frustration, "And even now— even now that I've learned that I should do everything possible to stay hidden— people still manage to find me out. _Damn it_! They even knew before that huge mess with Jimmy! Apparently, I'm not— well, apparently I'm not the most 'subtle' as his lordship worded it." He looked at Baxter with desperation in his eyes. "Please, Phyllis. Tell me what I'm doing wrong," he beseeched her.

At first she wished to evade the request, for she knew that the answer would only serve to mortify her already emotionally exhausted friend. But she also knew that he felt that he _needed_ to know the truth. And so she told him, "Sometimes— sometimes when you see someone— someone that you fancy. A man. Sometimes when you see a man that you fancy, it's like your whole face— your whole face just lights up. It's like a cloud that's been hanging over your head has suddenly evaporated."

"So, I need to stop that. I need to be more careful not to do that."

"Oh, no Thomas! No," she said with a mixture of pity and compassion, "that's not what you need to do. Yes, people notice, but only because it is such a contrast to— to that 'mask' you wear. But if you were to take off that mask, if you were to just be in this world as yourself, I don't think anyone would think it odd or strange. They would just know you as the person you really are."

"They wouldn't like me if they knew me for what I really am."

"Do they like you now?" she asked despite knowing that the question could be construed as cruel.

"No, I suppose not."

"So, then what would it hurt to try a different approach?"

**Author's Note: Apologies for the long delay for this update. I knew what I wanted to write and had all these individual bits of dialog wondering about inside my head, but I was having difficulty figuring out how to string everything together. Well, Thomas should probably get some sleep, don't you agree? Hmm, wonder if he'll be having any interesting dreams...**

**By the way, I had contemplated a far more disgusting cigarette scene. I was going to have him collect a half dozen cigarette butts, roll the stale/moldy/disgusting tobacco into a new roll, and then start reminiscing about O'Brien ("it tastes bitter and vile... golly, I wonder what Sarah is up to?"), but I just couldn't do that to the poor guy. He probably ****_would_**** die from botulism or something if he smoked it!**


	9. Chapter 9

As had become his habit ever since his promotion to the position of under butler, Barrow began to make his evening rounds of the great house. If one were to venture to ask him his reason for doing so, he would likely make a vague statement about wanting to "keep an eye on things" to ensure that everything was "just so"; on the other hand, if one were to ask the other servants, they would likely say that he was snooping about in order to uncover scuttlebutt on anyone and everyone. The truth—both more simple and yet more complex—lay somewhere in between these two extremes. Ever since his falling out with O'Brien, he had found himself petrified of the unknown, of being caught unaware and unprepared. He had taken her for granted; he had taken for granted not only her capacity for vengeance but—and it grieved him to admit such a thing—her capacity for love. For he never really understood how much she loved him until that love was abruptly taken away. He didn't, couldn't, wouldn't see it at the time, but O'Brien really had loved him like a son.

Walking down the narrow corridors and broad hallways, Barrow performed his nightly ritual of weighing and measuring the accumulation of choices that ultimately doomed their friendship. When disaster first came to pass, he tried to convince himself that O'Brien's betrayal had come from out of nowhere and that there was no way he could have predicted that she was going to try to destroy him with promises of the one thing he desired most in the world. And when he really thought about it—thought about what it was that he wanted more than anything else—he came to the realization that it wasn't the promise of true love or a wildly romantic tryst that allowed him to believe O'Brien's lies. No, it was something far worse.

It was the promise of acceptance that was his undoing.

An overabundance of caution is an important quality for a man of Barrow's nature, for the dangers of being revealed are great. And yet, he so often found himself flouting danger when he was around Sarah O'Brien. Even the kindest of souls believed deep down that there was something fundamentally _wrong _with him. O'Brien was hardly a saint—that much was for certain—and becoming her enemy was easier than he ever could have imagined. As he made his way down a row of guest bedrooms, he chided himself for being so very foolish to think that such a thing as acceptance was possible. When O'Brien had first suggested that Jimmy was _that sort_, why hadn't he come to his own defense? Years ago, he would have flirted with Daisy until he had everyone convinced that he was a proper ladies' man.

_Why do you keep lying to yourself? None of them were ever fooled by your little performances. _He should have been more cautious with O'Brien—but would that have made any difference? Something had changed between the two of them that went far beyond her knowing that he fancied other blokes. It was really quite simple, he concluded as he rounded the corridor for the family's bedchambers: once Alfred had arrived, once O'Brien had a member of her _real_ family to love, it was only to be expected that she would grow tired of supporting Barrow himself. She had offered him a promise of acceptance only so she could have the power to destroy him when she took that acceptance away.

It was with this thought on his mind that he came to pass by the door to Lord Grantham's dressing chamber through which he could hear barely discernible fragments of a conversation between his lordship and Mr. Bates.

"…Barrow…. made a decision?"

_Is my life really so interesting to everyone that they can't talk about anything else? _He shook his head as he mentally rebuked himself. _Quit being such a pill. You should be thankful that his lordship has been so understanding, and you bloody well know it._

"You know…stubborn…can be.…afraid to…alone."

_Right, Mr. Bates, you know me so well. The only possible reason I wouldn't want to go is out of stubbornness. If you're going to talk about me behind my back, you could at least get things right. _Despite only overhearing bits and pieces, Barrow could feel himself becoming increasingly ruffled.

"…suppose it would…friend with him? I can't believe…what about…still in contact?"

_He couldn't possibly be talking about— Really?! It's taken me the better part of a year to get over him!_

"…similar thought…asked Mr. Carson. And—"

_This is ridiculous! Have I been walking around with the words "still pining away for Jimmy Kent" written across my forehead?_

"What?"

_Yes, Mr. Bates, spit it out. _

"…gone back to work…Lady Anstruther."

_He can't possibly be saying—_

"…joking."

_Poor Jimmy._

"…wish I was."

_Sure you do._

And then the sound of laughter.

"Perhaps…be better. Goodnight, Bates."

"…night, m'lord."

As he heard the doorknob begin to turn, Barrow quickly moved further down the corridor.

"Thomas? A bit late to be wondering about, isn't it?" Bates remarked in a tone that, to Barrow's ears, was midway between accusatory and patronizing.

"Simply performing my duties as under butler, Mr. Bates," replied Barrow, who made certain to place particular emphasis upon his job title.

Bates raised an admonishing eyebrow, "And do those duties include listening in on his lordship's private conversations?"

For a brief moment, Barrow considered defending himself. But what would be the point? He had been caught and they both knew it. "Do _your_ duties include talking about me outside of my presence?" he countered.

"I hope that you're not suggesting that you should be permitted to dictate what his lordship does or doesn't discuss, Thomas."

"I'm not suggesting anything. I'm _asking _you to do me the curtesy of speaking to me first when you find yourself feeling 'concerned' for my welfare," Barrow replied, unable to disguise the annoyance in his voice.

To Barrow's surprise, the other man appeared to genuinely consider this request. "My apologies, Thomas. I will take care to do so in the future. Good night."

The two began to part ways, each heading in the opposite direction—which was ridiculous considering that they were both heading the same way—when Barrow felt himself compelled to speak once more. "Mr. Bates?"

"Yes?"

"Do you believe that I haven't earned my position as much as you have earned your own?" he asked. Ignoring the scoffing sound coming from Bates, he continued, "This isn't about me being envious over you being his lordship's valet, if that's what you're thinking. We're long past that."

"Yes, I believe we are long past that. And I think we both know exactly how you _earned_ your position, Thomas."

"The exact same way that you did," replied Barrow bluntly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"We're both where we are today because someone took pity on us. You don't honestly believe that you'd be working as a valet if the two of you weren't friends, do you?" He could see that Bates was rapidly losing his patience, and so he quickly forged ahead, "But that doesn't mean that either one of us hasn't worked hard to earn our positions! Yes, I know that I should be thanking my lucky stars that I am where I am—and so should you—but that doesn't mean that I— that _we_ haven't also earned our positions."

Bates nodded, his annoyance gradually receding. "For what it's worth, yes, I believe that you've proven yourself very capable as under butler. And, all right, I will even concede that you probably would have earned the position even without certain _events_ taking place. But really, what is this all about?"

What was it all about? Barrow wasn't entirely certain himself. He mulled over the question, twirling it through the fingertips of his mind. "I would appreciate it, Mr. Bates, if you sincerely believe that I have earned my title, that you would refer to me as Mr. Barrow—at least until we can consider ourselves to be friends."

"Friends, eh?" replied a somewhat bemused looking Bates, "Are you actually entertaining the thought?"

Surprising even himself, Barrow replied, "I don't see why not."

"Very well, Mr. Barrow. Until we can consider ourselves to be friends it is."

How odd it was, getting what he wanted without needing some elaborate scheme or plot. If O'Brien had been there—well, the O'Brien who still cared about him—if she had been there, she would have encouraged him to sabotage Bates until he was forced out of the house. How odd it was, getting what he wanted by instead revealing his true self. Perhaps Baxter hadn't been so far off the mark after all?

With that thought weighing upon his mind, Barrow felt the sudden urge to extend an olive branch, "So, Lady Anstruther, eh?"

"Eavesdropping, Mr. Barrow?"

"I promise it was just something I quite innocently overheard."

Bates smiled slightly, accepting the explanation at face value. "It would appear that James has decided to return to work with his former employer," he said, sounding as though he was worried that Barrow was made of glass and might shatter at this information, "I'm going to assume you already know why he was dismissed?"

And, Barrow responded in the only way that he could. He laughed.

It started as just a slight giggle, but once it had begun, he found himself overcome with the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. Before too long, Bates had joined him.

"Oh, dear God! Poor Jimmy!" he finally managed to say between chortles.

"So, you're not upset?" asked Bates with genuine concern.

"I don't know. Maybe a bit, I suppose. But, we haven't spoken in nearly a year, and, well, the whole thing is just so _absurd_. I can't believe he managed to get himself into such a mess. Although, I suppose he might be perfectly happy."

"That could very well be," replied Bates with a smile.

"Goodnight, Mr. Bates."

"Goodnight, Mr. Barrow."

**Author's Note: Hey, there! If you've read ****_this_**** far into the story, I'm going to go out on a limb and assume that you like it. So why haven't you left me a review, eh? Send me some love, yo!**

**Author's Note 2: I hope that it's clear at this point that Thomas isn't always a reliable narrator, so we shouldn't necessarily trust his perspective on things. I left Baxter out of this chapter since it would be unrealistic for them to be talking nonstop (and, yeah, I'm probably having everybody talking waaaaaaaaaay more than they would on the show itself—let's just pretend that they've been sucked into a magical universe where people actually talk about things, shall we?)**

**Author's Note 3: (May 10, 2015) I've made some edits to Lord Grantham's confession to Thomas, specifically his heart break about he baby. Re-reading the speech, I've concluded that the tone wasn't quite right. I've only changed a line or two, so it isn't anything major, but if the tone didn't sound right to you either, you may want to check out the changes that I've made.**

**Author's Note 4: I've spotted a few more typos in previously posted chapters and will take care of them sometime between now and posting chapter 10. If you spot any errors yourself, please don't hesitate to let me know!**


	10. Chapter 10

_"What are you doing?" he asked the other man._

_"Getting ready for work," replied the man as he removed his tie and began to unbutton his shirt, "She's been working me day and night."_

_He nodded his head as he looked at the man who seemed so oddly familiar. Did I used to love you? He wasn't sure if he asked the question because he wasn't sure if he had a body—let alone a mouth—anymore. _

_The man was now naked even though only a moment ago he was nearly fully dressed. "Well, I'm off to work," he said with a horrible smile that stretched his face much wider than it should have. And then they were in a bedroom and the man who seemed so oddly familiar was on top of a woman and the two of them were gyrating together and he wasn't quite sure where he should look because every time he turned his head that was no longer there, there they were. Every time he blinked with invisible eyelids for eyes that he no longer had, they changed to yet another new and impossibly acrobatic position._

_The woman looked at him and laughed as she climaxed, he felt himself falling into the black chasm of her gapping jaw. Oh, you are a naughty boy! _

_He was falling and tumbling through an abyss. And he looked up. And he looked up. And he looked up. And he was looking up at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel where a young man was painting the portrait of a yellow labrador retriever. Somebody with a mouth and a body should tell him to stop. The dog doesn't belong there—and the image of a warm fireplace flashed before him, but then it was gone and he wasn't entirely certain if he had seen it at all. "I'm only doing what my uncle asks me to do. He's ever so helpful!" said the young man with a smile. But who is your uncle? The young man did not answer, for he was now a swarm of midges that flew into the now cold fireplace, up through the chimney, and out into the night sky._

_He looked down—or was it backwards and forwards and round again?—and a lovely and terrible grandfather clock towered before him. The pendulum swung with silence so deafening he just knew the fabric of the world would be torn apart. He couldn't see the clock face but he just knew the time was wrong. Everything was wrong and the time was wrong and the clock was wrong. If he could just turn the hands to their proper places, everything would be as it should. "Is everything alright?" asked the oddly familiar man as he knocked at the wood housing of the terrible and lovely grandfather clock, "Wake up, Mr. Barrow. Wake—"_

"—up," said Mr. Carson as he gently jostled Thomas's shoulder.

Barrow blinked in confusion as he sat up in his bed, the remnants of his dream rapidly fading into a blur of strangely incoherent images. "What? Huh? What are you doing in here, Mr. Carson," he croaked out as he gradually came back to the waking world.

"You were yelling," explained the butler, "I could hear you through the door. I thought perhaps you were dreaming about—" He didn't say _the war_, but after their conversation from the previous night, Barrow didn't need him to say it.

"No, nothing like that. I'm sorry if I woke you, Mr. Carson." He wasn't sure if the other man smiled or frowned, for it was quite dark in the room. He wasn't sure which of the two possibilities was more unsettling.

"Well, no harm done. I was actually on my way to, uh, tend to some things, so I was already awake."

Barrow was thankful that the room was dark enough that he could roll his eyes without consequence. _It's called a water closet, Mr. Carson. There's no shame in admitting that you're capable of unclenching long enough to use one._ As he watched Carson walk towards the door, he suddenly felt himself compelled to speak. "Mr. Carson?" he asked even though in his sleep addled state, he wasn't quite certain why or what he was asking.

"Yes?"

"Do you think it would be possible for Miss Baxter to come with me? To the funeral? She's a friend of the family," he asked. Well, that was handy; apparently, his brain didn't need to be functioning in order for his mouth to work.

In the dim light now streaming in from the window, Barrow could just barely make out Carson's shadow. "Hmm," the shadow contemplated, "Yes, I believe that could be arranged. At what time is the service scheduled?"

Truth be told, he wasn't entirely certain himself. "I'll need to double check with our parish, but the pastor usually preferred to hold services on Saturday morning." Of course—given that Barrow hadn't laid eyes on the man for two decades and counting—that was assuming Pastor Eldridge was still with the same parish or if he was even alive.

The sun had finally broken across the horizon, and Barrow could now clearly make out Carson's form. "I see; as soon as tomorrow morning, then? Well, try to find out as soon as possible for everyone's convenience. If you do need to leave tomo—hmm, well I suppose it would have to be tonight if the service is in the morning—if the service is tomorrow morning, I trust that you will complete all of your duties with time to spare."

"Yes, Mr. Carson."

From somewhere down the long corridor, a hall boy could be heard banging on the doors and yelling, "Six o'clock!"

Barrow groaned slightly.

"Well, Mr. Barrow. I would wish you pleasant dreams, but I'm afraid that time has passed," said a bemused Carson as he left the room.

_Indeed_, thought Thomas as he began to change into his livery. The dream—or perhaps, _nightmare _was a better word for it—was now only a collection of vague memories. He thought that maybe Jimmy was in the dream— nightmare— whatever, but he couldn't form a clear image. And, now that he thought about it, he couldn't seem to form a picture of Jimmy in his mind at all. Only the most basic of brushstrokes were visible to his mind's eye: blond hair and blue eyes, a nice body (although to be fair, he knew that he was likely embellishing just a bit) but that was about it. How in the world did he go from being unabashedly in love with someone to no longer even being able to clearly remember the object of his affection's face? The whole thing seemed ludicrous. Had he really spent— had he really _wasted _years of his life pining away for someone who was never going to love him back?

**Author's Note: This chapter is a bit on the short side, i know. I had multiple versions of the dream running through my head, so it was tough deciding which one would work best. At one point, it was going to be a slash-tastic dream featuring an all star line up of all of Barrow's past crushes, but that didn't really seem to work for this story. **


	11. Chapter 11

As usual, the morning was a whirlwind of activity as servants bustled from room-to-room, quickly straightening and arranging, dusting and cleaning, mopping and waxing every available surface, corner, and nook. The urgency with which they worked stemmed in no small part from the necessity of having the house in order before the inevitable jingling of bells in the servants hall came to interrupt their morning meal.

With his clipboard in hand, Barrow smoothly cut through the hubbub and carefully jotted down notes. He had come to the eastern sitting room when he saw it. _Drunken_ _idiots not paying attention_, he thought as he examined the carelessly discarded cigar stub that had burned an imperfectly spherical hole in the rug. There was always a bit of damage done in the wake of a party, and any servant worth his salt knew how to keep the family in the dark while the item was mended. The rug was relatively new—a gift sent from India by Lord Flintshire—and thankfully was not entirely irreplaceable; nonetheless, Barrow was nonplussed at having to deal with such a matter when he was already so very pressed for time.

"Lawrence! Samuel! Edgar!" he called out in the most commanding tone he could muster before having his morning cup of tea. He mentally gave himself a slight pat on the back for remembering the names of all three boys. Lately, it seemed as though the servants entrance was becoming a revolving door as fewer and fewer young lads chose a life in service.

"Yes, Mr. Barrow," the three hall boys replied in unison as they awaited orders.

"Do you suppose his lordship has always wanted a rug he can poke his thumb through?" he scolded as he picked up the corner of the offending textile and peered through the opening at the three lanky teenagers standing nervously before him.

"No, Mr. Barrow," they replied once more.

"Then why is it that the three of you have left this room in such a state? Do you wish to _tarnish _the pristine image of Downton?" _Good Lord, I'm beginning to sound like Mr. Carson._

Being one of the newest additions to the staff, Samuel chose that moment to make the grave error of answering Barrow's rhetorical question, "But isn't it the maids' job to do that sort of thing?"

Finding himself momentarily longing for the days when it was considered quite acceptable to give a junior member of staff a thorough beating, Barrow sternly reproached the youth, "If you wish to continue working here, your job is whatever I say it is."

Flushing with a combination of fear and embarrassment, Samuel mutely nodded his head.

Satisfied that the reprimand had taken its proper effect, Barrow softened a bit as he issued his instructions. "Alright, we need _this_ out of here before the family awakes. It wasn't due for a cleaning until, hmm," he paused to check a slip of paper on his clipboard, "until next month, but I don't think anyone will notice. Mr. Abnar in the village will know how to fix the damage if fixing such a thing is possible. Just get it rolled up and carried down to the delivery entrance; we'll have Mr. Abnar send his assistant by to pick it up. In the mean time, I want you three to scrub this floor until I can see my reflection. Normally, I'd ask the _maids_ to do it, but I suspect you three could use the experience." He waited a moment for one of the lads to raise an objection over missing breakfast before continuing, "And I'll let Daisy know to set aside something to eat so's you don't go begging 'til it's tea time." Relieved to discover that they were not expected to starve, the trio quickly started working on the task at hand, and Barrow continued on with his inspection of the house.

Having completed his morning duties, Barrow made his way to the servants hall where he found Mr. and Mrs. Bates and Miss Baxter seated at the table, all three engaged with mending this-or-that bit of frippery belonging to the family—John and Anna working with needle and thread whereas Phyllis used her _Singer_. "Good morning," he said congenially to the group as a whole. Bates looked up from his work and offered a cordial nod, "Good morning, Mr. Barrow."

"Paper come yet?"

"Yes, and Mr. Carson is reading it now." With a slight smile, Bates teased, "I'm afraid you'll need to wait for him to retire before you can expect to have first dibs."

Anna looked up from her darning with a smile, "Sometimes I'm not sure who's more eager to see Mr. Carson retire, Mr. Barrow: you or Mrs. Carson!"

On any other morning, Thomas would have been insulted to hear his eagerness for better job prospects made fodder for teasing; indeed, he had to make an effort to bite back a nasty retort. But it hadn't escaped his notice that both Anna and Bates had been careful to address him by the proper salutation; and for that small bit of propriety, he was grateful enough to call a temporary truce in his longstanding feud with the valet. "Well, at least _I _might have a shot at reading the paper first," replied Barrow with a wink, "I'm afraid the same couldn't be said for Mrs. Carson."

"And just _what_ couldn't be said for Mrs. Carson?" inquired Carson in a tone not so dissimilar to the one Barrow had used earlier that morning with the hall boys. And had Barrow still been the age of one of those hall boys, he might have cowered just a wee bit. But instead, he was an under butler with nearly two decades of experience dealing with the politics of the downstairs, and so he was already prepared with a response.

"We were just lamenting that we no longer seem to be enjoying Mrs. Carson's presence quite so often as we'd like, Mr. Carson," replied Barrow with just a touch of exaggerated formality to appease his superior.

"Is Mrs. Carson enjoying her retirement?" asked Anna, whom Barrow silently thanked for pushing the conversation further from his indiscretion.

"Indeed," was Carson's noncommittal reply.

Everyone moved to take their seats at the table as the remaining servants, sans three hall boys, came into the room. As they sat down, Bates whispered in a low voice to Barrow, "My money says she's bored out of her mind" causing the other man to stifle a loud chortle.

Barrow proffered a sideways glance upon Mrs. Rocastle, the new housekeeper, who was presently taking a seat beside Carson. She was a kind enough woman, but Barrow didn't know her and that made him ever so uneasy around her. Why couldn't the job have gone to Baxter or Anna? _Don't be daft; you know precisely why neither of them got the job. Her ladyship is sick of having to search for a new maid and Anna doesn't want to leave the little love nest that she's got with Bates._

Thomas missed the former Mrs. Hughes greatly—indeed everyone did—and it was so very odd to see another woman seated in her position at the table. Still, it was an improvement over how things were before Mrs. Rocastle's arrival with Phyllis and Anna juggling not only their own duties as Lady's Maids but the duties of keeping the house in order as well. When Mrs. Carson first announced her plans to retire, Barrow had encouraged Baxter to apply for the position—and he was quite certain that Bates had done the same for Anna. But after just a month of splitting the job between the two of them, both women had begun to drop not so subtle hints to Lady Grantham and Lady Mary that they were perfectly content in their current positions. And so came the arrival of Mrs. Rocastle.

He mustn't have been quite as surreptitious in his appraisal of the woman, for she was now regarding him with a slight hint of a smile upon her lips. "Anything you need, Mr. Barrow?" she asked in a tone that clearly signaled that she had been warned about him.

"Me? Oh, no! Just wondering how you're getting along. I would imagine that Downton is a bit of a change from Farringham," he remarked in what he hoped sounded like a genteel manner. _Lovely. The woman is here for scarcely a week, and I'm already having to mend fences with her. _It wouldn't do anyone any good for the two of them to start things off on the wrong foot. The last thing he needed or wanted was for another well-earned promotion to be swept out from under him. Even after all these years, he still winced a bit at being passed over for his lordship's valet in favor of Bates. Getting along with the housekeeper was one of the unspoken requirements for a butler, he reckoned.

"A bit of a change from a boys boarding school? Indeed it is, but not as much as you might think, Mr. Barrow," she responded. Dabbing lightly at the corner of her mouth with her napkin, she continued, "The responsibilities of a head mistress and a housekeeper are not all that dissimilar. Keep the household in good running order and be willing to offer a shoulder to cry on as needed. But at least here, I'm not minding forty-two adolescent boys!"

Barrow laughed, his unease dissipating as he found himself warming up to the woman sitting catty-corner to him. When he first heard news that the Crawleys had selected some sort of _schoolmarm_ to take over for the venerable Mrs. Carson, he had imagined a dour-faced windbag who would undoubtably spend more time lecturing everyone than actually making herself useful. _You thought she'd be the second coming of Sarah Bunting, _he scolded himself ruefully.

"Do you miss the work?" asked Anna who had been listening to the conversation with interest.

Her brow wrinkling with just the slightest hint of sadness, the newly appointed housekeeper explained, "Running that school was really my husband's passion, but I was happy to take over his duties after he— Well, I felt that it was the least that I could do as a widow."

Realizing that she may have inadvertently opened a wound for the woman, Anna apologized, "I'm so very sorry, Mrs. Rocastle. Was it the war?"

"Oh, good heavens, no. No, it was actually the prior year. I was away visiting my sister at the time, so I was never able to get a straight answer about what happened. From what I've gathered, it was some sort of student prank gone terribly wrong," she paused for a moment before rolling her eyes, "Although, several of the boys insisted that it was little green men from the moon coming to invade the planet. As I said before, at least I'm no longer minding forty-two adolescent boys!"

Surprised that Mrs. Rocastle was able to keep such a strong sense of humor after losing her husband, Barrow asked, "So what brings you to Downton? Not that you're not welcome, of course."

"Of course," she responded with a warm smile. "My daughter lives near here, and since she and her husband have had the audacity to make me a grandmother, I thought it was time for me to relocate a bit closer."

"Congratulations!" exclaimed Barrow.

"You're supposed to say, 'But you look far too young to be a grandmother.'"

"Oh, right. 'But you look far too young to be a grandmother,'" he parroted obediently. "How was that?"

"You're an excellent liar, Mr. Barrow," she praised with a playful smirk.

Conversation for the remainder of the meal was light as the servants commenced with the morning ritual of shoveling food into their gullets in anticipation of the inevitable interruption. Remembering his request from much earlier that morning, Barrow turned to Miss Baxter, "Phyllis, do you think you could—"

"Yes," she interrupted with a smile.

"You don't even know what I'm going to ask," he pursed his lips slightly in disappointment

"Yes, I do. You'd like for me to come with you to your father's funeral. Mr. Carson told me earlier this morning." She wrinkled her nose slightly, "I'm a bit embarrassed that I didn't think to offer to come myself, to be frank."

Never being the sort to care for others being a step ahead of him, Barrow jested with mock indignation, "I was going to ask, 'Phyllis, do you think you could pass the marmalade.' But, yes, coming with me would also be lovely."

"Oh, how silly of me!" she replied as she handed her friend the condiment sitting only a few inches from his fingertips.

"Are you sure you'll be alright coming? Her ladyship won't mind, will she? I know it's a bit last minute," he asked more seriously. Although he had managed to fleetingly quell the flood of emotions that had repeatedly overwhelmed him over the past few days, Barrow was exceedingly grateful that his request had been granted. The mere thought that something, anything, might happen to send his plans awry worried him. "I won't be putting you too far behind in your work, will I?"

"Stop worrying, please," beseeched Baxter, "I'll speak to her ladyship when I bring up her breakfast, but if you must know, Mr. and Mrs. Bates have been very kind to lend me a hand with getting a jump on things."

Recalling the little sewing circle that was well underway upon his arrival in the servants hall, Barrow remarked, "Ah, so that explains why Mr. Bates was sewing beads to a lace hanky. It didn't strike me as being quite his lordship's style!"

At that moment, the first of the bells began to ring as though it were chiming along with the merry twinkling of Baxter's laughter. "Well, no rest for the wicked," she said as she rose from the table.

The remainder of the morning and afternoon went by quickly thanks to the full roster of duties that never seemed to let up long enough for Barrow to fret over how he might survive the inevitable dramatics of the following day. By the time he had his notes ready to discuss with Mr. Carson, he had nearly—but not quite—forgotten all about the knot that twisted in his stomach whenever the thought of meeting with his sister whispered at the back of his mind.

He rapped lightly on the door to Carson's office before entering. "Afternoon, Mr. Carson," he said to the bushy-browed butler. "Just wanted to go over things with you before heading out."

Carson gave what approximated a smile and gestured for Barrow to take the seat across from his desk. "Excellent, Mr. Barrow. Now, I don't intend to rush you, but I trust that you and Miss Baxter have made the appropriate arrangements to ensure that you will both be back here in good time?"

"Naturally, Mr. Carson." _Trust Mr. Carson to never allow sentimentality to get in the way of a well-run household._ Barrow scanned through his notes for a moment before speaking again, "Let's see here. One of the rugs—the new one in the eastern sitting room—needed a few threads repaired; it should be back by the end of the month. Hmm, we've been going through quite a bit of the_ Château d'Yquem_. I know that's one of his lordship's favorites, so I suggest setting aside the remaining bottles for a special occasion. There's a case of the _Domaine Raveneau Chablis les Clos_ that I believe will serve nicely for more casual gatherings. Oh, and I've moved one of the hall boy's—umm, Samuel—I've moved Samuel's next half day from this coming Thursday to the following Tuesday."

"Oh?"

"Yes. It would seem that young Mr. Cunningham and one of the scullery maids have been having a bit of a, mmm, shall we say flirtation." A _bit_ of a flirtation was an understatement as Barrow recalled catching the pair necking in a broom closet only an hour earlier. "I thought it might be best to keep their corresponding free time to a minimum lest the young lady should get herself into trouble."

"Indeed!" harrumphed Carson looking thoroughly scandalized at the very thought of hormone addled teenagers running amok. Elsie was always saying that the times were changing, and he felt that sentiment now more than ever. He found himself absorbed in the task of mentally wringing his hands—when he wasn't mentally wringing Samuel's neck—when a soft knock came at the door.

"My apologies for interrupting," said Baxter, "Our train is leaving soon. Are you ready to go, Thomas?"

_Not even in the slightest. _"Of course! Lead the way!"

**author's note: did you catch the Doctor Who easter egg I tossed in?**

**author's note 2: apparently, dower and dour are two very different words. D'oh.**

**author's note 3: Next chapter, the joys of having Thomas Barrow for a traveling companion!**


	12. Chapter 12

"Would you please stop pouting," she admonished her taciturn traveling companion.

"I'm not pouting. I just don't see why I couldn't have just popped by the kiosk nice and quick for a pack."

"For one thing, Thomas, our train was leaving the station. And for another, the bloody kiosk was _closed_! So, stop pouting, please. I dare say you'll survive a few more hours without smoking."

Barrow drummed his fingers on the armrest dividing their seats as his cantankerous mood increased by degrees. "You know, it's bad enough I even have to go to this stupid thing. Least you could do is be supportive," he grumbled.

Baxter looked up from reading _The Lady_, which a previous passenger had generously left behind on her seat, and stared incredulously at Barrow before finally asking, "Do I really need to dignify that comment with a response?"

He said nothing but instead became curiously preoccupied with picking at the stitching of his glove with his thumb and forefinger. Baxter, for her part, didn't let up from fixing her gaze upon him until he muttered, "Don't you have some reading to do?" But when that didn't do the trick, for Baxter continued to stare at him unabated, he finally relented and mumbled sheepishly, "Sorry."

Satisfied, she opened the tabloid to a random page and asked, not without sympathy, "Why are you in such a mood? Less than an hour ago, you were smiling and joking with everyone. My God, you even seem to be getting along with Mr. Bates—an absolute miracle if I ever saw one! I was starting to think the two of you would never quit being at each other's throats."

Barrow contemplated the magazine page as he tried to formulate an adequate response. The periodical had opened to a full-paged advert for _Pears Soap_, depicting a dripping wet little girl climbing out of a clawfoot bath tub presumably to fetch a bar of the eponymous soap. The illustrated bathroom looked obscenely modern to Barrow's eyes—the only other time he could recall seeing that much checkerboard in one place was when he accompanied Lord Grantham to America. "Do you suppose Mrs. Rocastle will be bringing her grandkid by to visit Downton?" he asked.

"Mmm, I don't know. I imagine she might at some point since her daughter is close by. Why? Are you worried about it? I'm sure Mrs. Rocastle knows well enough to keep the child out of your hair."

"Worried? No, not at all!" he exclaimed as he shook his head. "I'm actually rather fond of kids, I'll have you know."

Surprised, Baxter replied apologetically, "I had no idea. You've always seemed rather indifferent to them."

"Well, it's not as though I can take Master George out for a few rounds with the ol' cricket bat, now can I?" he retorted as he rolled his eyes at her. "I just think it would be nice to have a little tyke from our lot running about the place."

"I'm fairly certain Lord Grantham wouldn't object to you turning his grandson into a ringer for the next House-Village cricket match," she said with a wink. "Although, I'd have to say young Andy ought to have first crack. Poor lamb looked completely lost during this year's game."

"Mmm, yes. I suspect that he's more of a footballer. But he'll get the handle of it eventually. At any rate, it's the nannies who are liable to give me a hard time."

"Why would the nannies mind you teaching Andy how to swing a cricket bat?" she asked with a mischievous glint in her eye.

"Quit trying to be clever. You may think you are, but you're not," he sniffed indignantly.

"Sorry, love. So, what's this about the nannies? Oh, and you do think I'm clever. Just a bit."

"Oh, they just act like you're a walking petri dish ready to infect the little darlings with some sort of malady. And all right, _fine_. You're a bit clever. But only just a bit." Sticking the tip of his tongue out as though he had tasted something truly foul, he recounted, "There was this one old bat who acted like I was infected with the plague for having the _audacity_ to say hello to Miss Sybbie." He paused for a moment before he continued, relishing in the remembered triumph, "I am _so_ glad I managed to get rid of her."

"Thomas! That's terrible!"

"What?" Baxter was utterly aghast with him; and despite his feigned innocence, he knew exactly why.

"Just because you don't get along with someone doesn't mean—"

"In my defense," he interrupted, "the woman was pure evil."

Baxter raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"No, really! I tipped Lady Grantham that there was something fishy about the woman—and, yes, I'll concede that I wasn't basing it off on much—and the next day she was _gone_. So, clearly my intuition saved the day!" He crossed his arms as though challenging Baxter to say something to the contrary.

If anything, Baxter's eyebrow only rose higher upon hearing Barrow's explanation. "Thomas, you know full well that _accidentally _doing the right thing and _intentionally_ doing the right thing are not one and the same, so don't expect me to congratulate you when your scheming happens to work out in your favor."

Annoyed at receiving what he knew was probably a well-deserved scolding, he said nothing in return. Instead, he busied himself with examining the upholstered backrest of the seat in front of him—a garish hodgepodge of mauve, chartreuse, and fuchsia that wasn't quite a paisley but wasn't quite a floral either—and wondered what, if any, decade such a fabric was in vogue. He hated not getting along with Baxter, especially now that he was able to count on her as a true friend. Out of habit, he rubbed at the scar lying beneath the surface of his glove as though he might by extension smooth out the rough edges that he was forever inflicting upon their relationship.

"Does it hurt?"

He paused for a moment in his manipulations and flexed the fingers of his gloved hand. "You'd think it would, wouldn't you? I mean, it certainly hurt _at the time_. But— The surgeon who patched me up said that if the bullet was a half inch higher, it'd be a whole 'nother story." He gestured to her hand, "May I?"

She nodded her head, granting permission, and he took her hand in his. Gently touching her hand with the tip of his finger, he explained, "See, the hand has these— these zones in it. And different zones have different, mmm, things going on in them. So, some of them are loaded up with nerves and tendons and that sort of thing. And some of them, not so much. The palm of the hand, this area _here_, that's mostly just the tendon you have to worry about. I was lucky. Not just that I was hit there and not up _here_," he moved his finger further up her palm to the padding at the base of her fingers, "but that I ended up with a surgeon who knew what he was doing—or was at the very least, willing to give it a go."

"I'm glad it isn't hurting you. I thought it—when I saw you massaging it—I thought it might be."

Flushing upon learning that his on-again off-again nervous habit had been noticed, he clarified, "Hurt? No. But it does feel a bit queer compared to the other one. Stiffer, I guess? If it was up _here_— the surgeon called it the _no man's land_— If it was up here in the _no man's land_, I'd have had all sorts of troubles. There's just a whole mess o' tendons and nerves and blood vessels running about in there. Injuries there are just all together nasty in every way. True, I've got a scar that's ugly as sin, but at least I can still work. So, really, I'm quite fortunate. Blessed even."

She nodded her head as she processed the impromptu anatomy lesson. The space between her brows wrinkling with concern, she offered, "I would have preferred you to come out of it altogether unharmed."

"Nah, best outcome possible, if you ask me. Put me in the right place at the right time to serve out the remainder of the war close to home. To be honest, I think that's the one thing that keeps me from hating Miss O'Brien entirely."

"Oh?"

"It was her idea to put my name forward when they were looking for someone to manage things. If she hadn't, I'd have been sent straight back to the front; no doubt about it." Even as he said the words, he found that he was shocked to still feel gratitude even after everything that had gone wrong between the two of them.

As if reading his mind, Baxter commented, "It sounds as though she really cared about you."

"Yeah. S'pose she did. Not anymore, of course. But she did once." He sighed as the heavy burden of a lost friendship weighed upon his heart, of opportunities offered and then snatched away. "Do you ever wish that you had lived your life differently? Got married and had a family? Instead of going into service?"

She quietly contemplated the question before answering somewhat noncommittally, "I suppose. But I don't think it's too late for that—well, maybe as far as children are concerned—but there's still time for the other bit. What about you?"

Feeling his cheeks warm with embarrassment, he hedged, "It isn't exactly an option for me."

"I don't see why not."

Although Barrow said nothing in response, the expression upon his face quite clearly stated that he was seriously questioning his friend's mental faculties at that very moment.

"Yes, I know that you can't be with—" She broke off abruptly as the conductor made his journey down the train compartment's narrow aisle before continuing in a substantially more subdued cadence, "I know that you can't be with the, mmm, sort of person that you'd wish. But surely you could find someone a bit more, mmm, appropriate whom you could fancy just as much?"

How in the world could he explain something that he himself only barely understood? Only a year ago, he was so convinced of the transmutability of his fundamental nature that he allowed himself to be hooked up to what was probably, as he looked back upon the memory with chagrin, an old car battery. Breathing in deeply and then blowing the air out slowly, he attempted to shed light upon his predicament, "It's not as though I don't know who I'm _supposed_ to be attracted to. I'm not _blind_. I know a fetching woman when I see one. I just don't— I just don't feel— It doesn't feel the _same _as when I'm looking at the other— the other sort." He hated having to speak in coded messages, but with the lack of privacy afforded to them, he had little choice in the matter.

"I'm sorry. I just want to see you happy. I thought you wanted to change; that's all. I know you can't change that one, um, aspect. But maybe you could strike up a friendship with someone and then fall in love with her over time?" she said apologetically.

"And what if I didn't or couldn't? How would that be fair to her?" He shook his head resolutely. "It just wouldn't work." He contemplated telling her more. What would she say if she knew about his long-ago abandoned fantasy of carrying on a clandestine love affair with the Duke of Crowborough who—if the bastard had a romantic bone in his body, Thomas thought bitterly to himself—was _supposed_ to use a loveless marriage with Lady Mary as camouflage for their illicit affections? He was a hopeless romantic through-and-through; and when he found himself falling in love with someone, he could be faithful to a fault—pledging his undying devotion and fidelity even when the other man only thought of him as a really good friend and nothing more. _And, there you go again. Thinking about Jimmy when you already know that nothing will ever come of it_.

She thumbed at a dog-eared corner of the magazine defeatedly, "Yes, I suppose you're right."

"Any way, that's mainly why I got into service in the first place. So I wouldn't _need_ to worry about that sort of thing. Nobody even bats an eyelash at a man in service living a supposedly celibate life. It wouldn't matter a bit if I never married or had a family."

She nodded as she took in his words, "Does it bother you that so many members of the staff are marrying?"

He winced a little at being found out, "Are my feelings really that conspicuous? I know that it's silly. Ridiculous even! And you would think that for someone like me, I'd be jealous of anyone who gets the chance to, um, be with the sort of person that I, mmm, want to be with. But, please, do _not _misunderstand me." He craned his neck and looked about the nearly empty train compartment checking for anyone who might be close enough to overhear. The conductor was on the opposite end of the car, discussing possible ongoing destinations to a young Parisian couple who, for reasons that baffled Thomas, had chosen a route heading _away from_ and not _towards _London. Satisfied that he wouldn't be discovered, he quickly muttered with a scowl, "It's not as though I'm thinking, _Oh, Anna is such a lucky girl! Oooh, Mr. Bates is so dreamy. Oh, if only it was me! _No, instead I'm thinking, _If I was like everyone else, I would have her in a heart beat. _But I can't even compete with any of them because while I'm busy making friends and wondering why I don't feel anything more, they're already halfway up the aisle."

Although he had always known how he felt about the matter, Barrow was nevertheless surprised with himself once he had managed to articulate those feelings. As if reading his mind, Baxter suggested, "Perhaps that's why you have trouble getting along with the other men in the house?"

"I suppose," he acknowledged, "It's not as though I can really blame it all on not being selected as his lordship's valet at this point."

"Well, no. I don't believe I ever saw you and Mr. Branson competing for the same position."

"_Mr. Branson?_ I'm surprised you're not scolding me for not getting on better with Mr. Molesely," he deflected.

Baxter rolled her eyes and gave him a knowing look, "If you're trying to convince me that you haven't been running Mr. Molesely through the wringer just to test his worthiness of me, I'm not buying it."

Attempting to hide a shy smile, but failing completely at the endeavor, Barrow grinned back at her, "And you keep saying that you dislike all my plotting and scheming! Do you think it would be overly ambitious to see if I can get Mr. Molesely to challenge me to a duel?"

"Walk twenty paces, turn, and fire? Golly, I can't see anything possibly going wrong with _that_ idea."

"Don't they just slap each other across the face with their gloves? I know gloves are involved in it somehow. I have to say I'm not particularly keen on the whole gun bit. I'm too young and beautiful to die," he declared solemnly, "Now, Mr. _Molesely_ on the other—"

"You throw down your glove."

"What?"

"You throw down your glove when you want to declare a duel. And, no, you're slight against Mr. Moseley did not go unnoticed. I would smack you, but the only thing I've got to do it with is _The Lady_ and I'm still reading it."

"Why would you throw down your glove? You'd just have to wash it later, and it's a nuisance getting gloves clean—I should know!"

"Um, Thomas?" she attempted to interrupt unsuccessfully.

"Oh, I'll bet it's one of those toff deals. They can just ask a servant to do the washing up, presuming they haven't gone and gotten killed with the whole dueling business. And, yes, I know that I'm rambling. You're far too nice, Phyllis. O'Brien would've told me to quit my yammering and pipe down _days _ago!"

"I'm not sure if I should take that as a compliment or not," she replied as she took advantage of the momentary break in Barrow's tirade as he paused for a breath.

"Oh, definitely a compliment."

"Good, because I like hearing you talk, and I'm not about to start encouraging you to stop anytime soon."

Offering her a sly smile, he teased, "Oh, I don't know. I think I can be rather persuasive."

Laughing, she acquiesced, "Yes, I suppose so. Even _I _have my limits. But even so, I really like seeing you open up. It isn't good for you to keep everything bottled up."

The gentle admonishment having the desired effect, Barrow somberly agreed, "I know. It just isn't easy when saying the wrong thing can get me in a heap of trouble."

She nodded her head, accepting his reasoning, for she knew from experience the fear inspired within oneself by a tightly held secret. How ironic it was to now be sitting beside the one person who had done everything in his power to use her fear to his advantage—and even more so, that she was now finding herself taking part in the sort of gossip that Barrow had wanted to hear from the get-go.

The train lurched forward and then back as it came to a halt at the station. As the conductor announced the name of the present stop, Barrow stood up to retrieve their bags from the overhead storage rack. "Come along, Phyllis. You already know it's a bit of a trek to the public house, and we need to be up early for the— We need to be up early tomorrow. So, I suppose we'd best be getting on with things." With Baxter following close behind, he made his way down the narrow aisle of the train car, a small luggage bag held firmly in each hand. Sighing like a condemned man who had grown weary of waiting for the firing squad to arrive, Thomas Barrow tread upon the ground of his home village for the first time in twenty years.

**author's note: I tried to include a link to the Pears Soap ad here, but unfortunately doesn't allow outside links. If you're curious about it, try googling Pears Soap 1920.**

**I'm going to admit right now that I'm somewhat clueless about British geography, so I was going to base the general geography off of the actors' backgrounds. Unfortunately, Stockport (Rob James-Collier) isn't even remotely close to Fleet (Raquel Cassidy), so just pretend that Thomas and Phyllis grew up somewhere halfway between the two!**


	13. Chapter 13

On the surface, the village bore an uncanny resemblance to his memories. But as they plodded along the time-worn cobble paths and alleyways of Belpher, a growing unease within his belly began to gnaw at him. "Um, Phyllis?" he asked somewhat hesitantly, for he felt rather ridiculous about his current state of befuddlement.

"Yes?"

"Do you have any idea where we are?" he asked but quickly regretted saying anything when the normally subdued woman burst out in a fit of laughter. "Fine. Forget that I asked!" he snarled.

Rapidly recovering her composure, she explained, "Oh, no! I'm not laughing at you. Please don't be angry, Thomas. The truth is: I was just following you."

Gladdened to hear that he wasn't the only one having trouble remembering the lay of the land, he dithered for a moment over their next move, "It would be rather humiliating to ask for directions, don't you think? Being that we both grew up here."

Baxter rolled her eyes in exasperation, "No one would pay you any mind if you were to ask for a little help."

On any other occasion, he would have felt admonished by her reproachful tone. But in this particular instance, he knew better. "Well, then why don't _you_ ask? Show me the proper way to ask for help. Set a good example for me," he challenged.

She stopped still and rose up on her toes just slightly as her back straightened and stiffened with apprehension. "What? I am _not_ going to ask. _You_ do it!"

It was now Barrow's turn to laugh, "You see?! I knew it! You know as well as I do that the first person you ask is going to say, _Aren't you little Phyllis Baxter?! Forget where you are? You been dropped on your head or something? How can you forget where you are? You lived here since you were a baby! If I had a sovereign for every time I forgot where I was, you know how much I'd have? Nothing! That's how_—"

"Yes, _thank you_, Thomas. I get the idea," she interrupted in exasperation. "Just who are you trying to imitate?"

"The schoolmarm. What was her name again? Miss Darcy?"

"Miss Darby. And while that was a wonderfully accurate impression—"

"Thank you!"

"—I don't believe we need to worry about running into her. She had to be in her late eighties the last time either of us saw her, right?"

Reluctant to yield ground, Barrow noted pointedly, "I wouldn't put it past her ghost to come haunt us over the matter, would you?" Over the duration of their conversation, the two had been meandering in what had felt like a haphazard direction. But looking now, he recognized a familiar landmark. "Well, there's the church," he pointed out, "Shall we look for Miss Darby's plot so we can ask for directions?"

"Don't need to," Baxter replied decisively, "I know where we are now. We were taking Belpher Square when we wanted Belpher Court. We need to go left at the corner."

The cobwebs gradually wiped clean from his memory, Barrow corrected her, "But that's Belpher Way. And besides, the public house is on Belpher Alley."

"Yes, I know that. Belpher Alley abuts Belpher Court and Belpher Way turns into Belpher Court once you're past the school house." Her back was turned to Barrow as she spoke; nevertheless, he couldn't help but hear the slight quaver in her voice.

"You all right, Phyllis? I know it's silly that we got ourselves lost, but we'll figure it out between the two of us," he attempted to reassure her.

She turned to look back at him, and Barrow was astonished to see tears welling in her eyes. Setting down the bags, he reached out to gently touch her arm, hoping that the small gesture would offer enough reassurance for her to share the cause for her current state. "What's wrong?" he asked softly.

"I— You're going to think I'm being selfish. You have enough on your mind at the moment. You needn't worry about me, Thomas," she said as a tear broke past the dam formed by her lashes.

Retrieving a handkerchief from his coat pocket, Barrow offered the square of soft fabric to his friend. "You let me worry about what I need to worry about. Tell me what's wrong," he insisted as the sudden reversal of their positions ignited an urgency within him.

She did not meet his eyes as she spoke, for doing so would have only furthered the sense of humiliation that she felt at that very moment, "It's just that— It just didn't occur to me until this moment that I might see someone who knows me and recognizes me."

"I'm not sure I—"

"Everyone _knows_, Thomas! Everyone here knows what I did!" her voice trembled with anxiety as she spoke, "They know that I stole and that I went to prison for it. You _know_ how this village is. You know that your sister would have told everyone with ears to listen the moment I asked for her help."

"No one is going to give you any bother, Phyllis," Barrow proclaimed resolutely.

"And how do you imagine that's going to happen?"

He smiled reassuringly at her as he gave her arm a gentle squeeze, "Because they'd have to deal with _me_ first."

She smiled back at him as she dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief, "So, you plan to fight my battles for me? Is that right?"

"We'll fight both of our battles together, I'd say." He picked up the bags once more and looked about, taking in his surroundings. "Left at the corner, yes? Belpher and then on to Belpher and then Belpher again?"

Baxter frowned with exasperation, "I swear, if I ever get my hands on whoever named—"

"I suspect his name is Mr. Belpher. And you'll need to stand in line because I wouldn't mind having a crack at him." He glanced over to his companion out of the corner of his eye, hoping to have elicited a smile from her and was delighted to see that his goal was achieved.

She watched as he breathed in the cool, early evening air and shifted the weight of the two bags in his hands. "You know that I can carry my own luggage, don't you?" she offered hoping to make up for her momentary lapse. She was there to support her friend in his time of need and not the other way around.

"Hmm? It's no bother. Wouldn't want the ghost of Miss Darby thinking that I'm incapable of a little chivalry, now would we? Besides, you're carrying the umbrella," he pointed out.

A look of horror swept over Baxter's face. "No, I'm not," she said utterly mortified at her carelessness, "I must have left it on the train." As if to punctuate the seriousness of her error, a raindrop splattered upon the tip of her nose. "I suppose it's too late to go back to the station. Train would have left ages ago. I'm dreadfully sorry, Thomas."

Barrow couldn't help smiling at the situational irony of their current circumstances. "Looks like somebody heard us talking and wants to teach us a lesson. Frankly, I'm surprised a government official hasn't leapt from the bushes to arrest us for lack of rainy day preparation."

"Yes, terrible un-English of us."

"Speak for yourself," he said with a grin, "You're the one who forgot the umbrella! Now, come along. If we pick up the pace, we'll avoid the worst of it."

Walking briskly, their shoes slipping and sliding across the ground as they endeavored to keep their balance on the moist cobble stone, they approached the church. As they neared the structure and its adjoining cemetery, they slowed their pace ever so slightly.

"That's new," Baxter noted as she gestured towards a large stone obelisk at the front of the churchyard.

"War memorial."

She shivered slightly, but she was unsure whether it was due to the growing chill in the air or that there were so many more headstones in the cemetery than she had remembered. They had stopped walking entirely, and as she turned to look at Thomas, she knew that his mind had journeyed to the same place as her own. "Did you see Maggie? When her husband—?" she broke off from completing the question, for she already knew the answer.

Sighing, Barrow looked out at the crowded patchwork of gravestones lying in the church's small cemetery, "No. I was still at the front when it happened. But, I— I don't think she would have wanted to see me. I did— Well, I did try to send my respects. Wrote her a letter. Offered my condolences. But, I don't think she would have wanted me to come. Did you?"

"I didn't even know he was killed until I wrote her asking for help. I suppose she thought me selfish asking for such a thing when I didn't have the decency to be there for her when she needed me." Her voice was filled with a regret that Barrow knew all too well. It was a regret that spoke not only of the fear of things done to hurt oneself but of things that one had done to hurt others as well. Barrow felt himself astonished to even think that someone as kindhearted and forgiving as the woman standing beside him could feel the same sense of regret as he did.

They continued on towards their destination, the mood substantially subdued from before. And, just as Baxter had predicted, they found the public house located on an alley abutting Belpher Court.

It was an unassuming building. If not for the faded sign above the doorway proclaiming itself to be _Belpher Tavern_, one would have assumed that the place had been abandoned centuries beforehand. The door made a shuddering groan of recalcitrance as Barrow pushed on the handle and motioned for Baxter to step inside. The dimly lit room was furnished with four small tables and a long bar behind which stood a plump, middle-aged woman, presumably the proprietor of the public house. Seated at the backmost table was the young Parisian couple from the train; unlike Thomas and Phyllis, the two looked warm and dry, having found their way to the public house without delay.

Barrow approached the woman behind the bar and inquired matter-of-factly, "Evening. We'll be needing accommodations, thank you."

"We're full up," the woman replied dully.

"Pardon?"

"I said, 'We're full up.' Something wrong with your hearing?" the woman repeated a bit more forcefully. Jutting her chin towards Baxter, "You and the missus should have thought to have phoned ahead if you were needing a place to stay."

Barrow sputtered slightly with discomfiture, "She not my— How can you not have a room? This is _Belpher_. Nobody visits Belpher!"

"_They_ phoned ahead," the woman said as she pointed to the couple seated at the back table. She offered the couple a warm smile as though she were a schoolmarm casting favor upon her favorite pair of pupils. And as she turned back to look at Barrow, he had the uncanny feeling that she wanted nothing more than to have him sit in the corner writing, _I will not make assumptions about public house accommodations_, a hundred times in a row with the stub of a pencil lead. Nevertheless, a flabbergasted Thomas forged ahead with his fruitless endeavor, "I think you must be mistaken. Or they must be mistaken. _ I grew up here_. _Nobody_ would come here out of their own free will."

The woman leaned across the bar, her ample bosom resting itself in a puddle of spilled ale, "I'll have you know that this lovely couple are on a—now, what did she call it?—Oh, yes! They are on a 'journey of literary discovery.' Now, doesn't that sound lovely to you?"

"Literary? What does that even mean? There's nothing _literary_ about this place!" Barrow squawked, now utterly and completely flummoxed.

A hand gently touched his shoulder and he turned his head to see Baxter smiling bemusedly at him. "Excuse me?" she inquired politely of the couple. "May I ask what brings you to our little village?"

The female portion of the couple smiled gayly. "Why yes! We are great admirers of your Monsieur Wodehouse," she explained in a thick French accent as she held up a ragged copy of P.G. Wodehouse's _A Damsel in Distress_. "My husband and I— we are on our honeymoon. And I see on the train map: Belpher! Just like in my book! And so, I say to my husband, 'Darling! We must go there!' For as I say, we are great admirers."

"Great admirers," echoed her husband in a manner that clearly expressed that he didn't understand a jot of English and had no more idea what they were doing in Belpher than did Barrow.

Baxter smiled warmly, if not just a bit bewildered, and murmured, "Why, yes. That does sound lovely."

Barrow, for his part, was even more incredulous than before. Turning back to the woman behind the bar, he grumbled, "So, you mean to tell me that we have no place to sleep on account of these two running around visiting make-believe English villages?"

The woman rolled her eyes, her patience for Barrow's obstinance wearing thin, "Dear, I can offer you a pint. I can offer you the best shepherd's pie you've ever tasted. But what I _can't_ offer you is a _bed_. What would you want one for anyway? Seeing as how you seem to think _nobody_ would want to come here?"

A feeling of triumph washed over Barrow as he realized that he still hadn't dealt his trump card. "I'll have you know, I'm here for my _father's_ funeral. I'm a grieving man," he said with just a bit of smugness.

The woman's eyebrows rose in her forehead dramatically, but not in the way that Barrow had hoped. Rather than looking surprised or ashamed at denying him a bed, the woman was looking at him as though he was something of a simpleton. "_You're_ Martin Barrow's boy? Well, the prodigal son returns!" she admonished as she looked Thomas over in annoyance, "Why don't you go stay with your sister? She's been having to get your father's affairs in order ever since he broke his hip, the poor man. God rest his soul. Might be nice for you to share a bit of her burden if you're not too busy living it up in the big city or whatever it is you think is more important than family."

His face flushed scarlet from being reprimanded by a complete stranger—one who, oddly enough, seemed to know more about his father's final days than he did—Barrow stood stupefied, clenching his teeth. Weary from the long journey, he struggled to formulate a suitable response but found himself wanting.

Baxter tugged gently at his elbow, for she too had grown uneasy at the publican's sudden change in demeanor. "Let's get going, Thomas. She's right; we should stay with your sister. It was silly for us to not think of it ourselves."

They hurried out the door, and despite the rain that now pelted down upon their shoulders, they both heaved a sigh of relief that they were no longer within the suffocating confines of the public house walls. They stood in the rain, momentarily struck dumb by their currently dispossessed state. Barrow licked his lips as he puzzled over a solution before muttering more to himself than to Baxter, "Well, I suppose we could just wait things out. Maybe see if the pastor wouldn't mind us bedding down for the night on a pew, or maybe—"

"Thomas?"

His shoulders slumped. "Yeah, I know."

"It won't be that bad. It's your home too; you know that."

He shook his head, "It hasn't been my home in years. _You_ know that."

Taking her bag from Barrow, she took his hand in her own and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Come on. It'll be okay," she said, hoping to reassure not only her friend but herself as well.

They held hands as they walked in silence in the falling rain as though the other person were a life preserver in a tumultuous sea. And before long, they came to stand in front of a modest cottage, entirely unremarkable in any way discernible by the naked eye.

Clutching the iron knocker firmly in his hand, Barrow rapped upon the door with a metallic thud. They waited on the front step for several minutes, and just as he was about to once more suggest sleeping in the church, the door swung open. And standing in the doorway was a woman he hadn't set eyes on in two decades, and yet, he knew her in an instant.

"Hey, Maggie," he said as though it were the most natural thing in the world, "I got your telegram."

She blinked at him for a moment before finally saying, "Well, come on inside before you catch your death standing out in the rain."

**Author's note: I thought it might be a good idea to flesh out Maggie's character a little bit more before formally introducing her. Thus far, she's been a bit of a boogie man, hasn't she? But, if Thomas can be flawed while still holding onto his basic humanity, couldn't the same be said for his sister? It's going to be a real challenge in the upcoming chapter(s): I don't want to whitewash Maggie's homophobia, so it'll be a challenge not depicting her as the evil harpy Thomas fears.**

**Author's note deux: Comment/review, please! I feel all warm and cozy inside when I get a new email notification :)**


	14. Chapter 14

The cutlery made a dull metallic twang as she slammed it into place on the table. Despite the invitation she offered as they shrugged off their dripping coats onto the entryway coatrack, it was clear to both Phyllis and Thomas that Margaret Howard, née Margaret Barrow, was none too pleased to see either one of them. Nonetheless, hospitality took precedence, and so she had invited them to stay, asking all the pertinent questions: had they eaten? was the journey pleasant? would they be staying for very long?

Sitting down for their evening supper, none of them—not Thomas, not Phyllis, not Margaret—none of them knew quite what to say. The clock on the mantle—the first and only one that Thomas had completed under his father's watchful tutelage—made a dull, mechanical click as the minute hand lurched reluctantly yet methodically forward. Unsure of how to proceed, for conversation with his sister had never come easily, Thomas hesitantly asked, "So, um, how are the boys? They around here somewhere?"

Margaret scoffed, the sound emanating from her throat speaking clearly of her disgust with her younger brother's oblivious foolishness, "What would they be doing here for? They're at _home_."

Thomas flushed with embarrassment as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. How could he have forgotten? In his rush seeking sanctuary from the rain, he had instinctually gone straight to his childhood home despite knowing perfectly well that his sister's tiny flat located above her late husband's bakery was situated at the other end of the village. Not wishing to be at a disadvantage in the already tense conversation, Thomas attempted to recover a shred of his dignity, "Yes, _of course_ I know that. I just thought that they would have come with you. Maybe helped out a bit with making the arrangements."

"Oh, you mean the way that you've been helping out?" she retorted, her voice dripping with accusation. She glared at Thomas, her piercing blue eyes a mirror of his own, and waited for his response.

Affronted, Thomas leaned back in his chair, his mouth agape. "Have you lost your marbles? When would I have time to help out with the arrangements? I only got the news a few days ago; and in case you didn't know, I have some _very_ important work that I can't just drop at a moment's notice. I came here as soon as I could!" He hated that he sounded so defensive. She was the one who should be begging for forgiveness, not him.

"Very important work?" she spat back at him. "Doing _what_? Tying some lazy aristocrat's bootlaces? _Bravo_ for coming out the day before Dad's funeral. Congratulations for doing the absolute _least_ you could do for your family, Thomas. Shall I fetch you a biscuit? Perhaps gather the village together to throw you a parade?" Her cheeks grew crimson as she unleashed a torrent of pent up frustration at him.

"You're joking, right? _What_ would you have me do, _Mar-ga-ret_? I didn't _know_," he demanded, pronouncing each syllable of her name as though he were systematically firing bullets from a gatling gun.

Phyllis shrunk into her seat, uncomfortable with the mounting animosity volleying between the two siblings. "Perhaps," she suggested meekly, "We should try to calm down just a bit. Emotions are a bit threadbare, and no one wants to say something that he or she doesn't intend." Navigating the volatile temperament of one member of the Barrow clan was bad enough, never mind when two of them were at each other's throats.

Thomas nodded, his fit of pique slowly abating to a slow simmer. "How are the boys?" he inquired in an attempt to salvage a bit of decorum out of the evening. "What's new with Geoffrey and Edgar?"

"Edmund."

"Oh, sorry. What's new with Geoffrey and _Edmund_?" he asked again, trying his best not to sound irritated at being corrected.

The corners of Margaret's mouth curved up ever so slightly as a wave of pride for her children washed over her. "Well, Geoffrey has been studying to follow in his grandfather's footsteps. He still hasn't quite learned all the nuts and bolts of the trade, but he's a quick learner and ought to be a fine craftsman if he keeps at it. Oh, and I'm not supposed to know, but he has something of a sweetheart. I'm fairly certain he plans to ask her to marry him any day now."

"Oh, that sounds marvelous," said Phyllis with a warm smile. "And how is Edmund?"

At the utterance of her elder son's name, Margaret's eyes brightened as though a candle had been lit from within her. "Well," she said with the sort of mock humility one uses when one wishes to crow to the heavens, "Eddie just completed his qualifying examinations for medical school. Can you _believe_ that? I'm going to have a doctor for a son!" Her tentative smile had now transformed itself into a full-fledged grin as she basked in the glory of her sons' accomplishments.

Thomas visibly relaxed, the long-held tension receding achingly from his back and shoulders. He had been dreading the idea of seeing his sister after so many years apart, and he was certain from the moment that he stepped through the door that the experience would be nightmarish. But if he could keep the conversation on something other than himself, he reasoned, he might be able to survive this visit after all. "That _does_ sound marvelous," he said, echoing Phyllis's earlier words, "You must be delighted."

Margaret looked him in the eye for a moment before saying pointedly, "You could have done something similar with your life if you wanted."

Thomas's shoulders slumped as the age-old argument raised its hoary head once more. "And how exactly did you expect me to accomplish that, Maggie? Dad turned me out of the house, remember?"

"He would have taken you back in an instant if you were only willing to—" she broke off from speaking as she gave Phyllis a weary sideways glance, "Perhaps, it would be better if we spoke about this matter some other time."

Thomas rolled his eyes. "She _knows_, Maggie."

Her eyes widening with horror, Margaret raised a trembling hand to her mouth, "Oh dear Lord. I am so _very_ sorry, Phyllis. I am so sorry that my brother has dragged you into his— his— oh, I can't even say it!"

Phyllis smiled weakly as she made the monumental effort of not rolling her eyes at her old friend's histrionics. "I somehow managed to survive the shock," she bluntly stated without any added inflection.

Margaret nodded her head, offering reassurance to her friend who required nothing of the sort, before turning her attention back to her brother, "As I was saying, if you had only been willing to _change_, Thomas. If you had just given up that foolishness, Dad would have taken you back with open arms. You were _always_ his favorite."

The fire beneath the cauldron of his anger had been hitherto a quiet flicker, but at hearing such a ludicrous suggestion, Thomas could feel his inner kindling ignite. "That's _not_ how it works, Maggie. It's not something that I can change! Don't you think that I would have if it was possible?! If it was all that simple and easy to do?! I'll have you know that I spoke with a _very _well-respected doctor, and he assured me that in his _expert_ opinion, I can't help how I am. It's just how nature has chosen to make me." If not for his ire, he might have felt daft at giving so much credibility to the kindly country doctor, but in this moment, Dr. Clarkson was the greatest medical authority the world had ever known.

If his sudden burst of anger was intended to intimidate his older sister, it wasn't doing the trick. Narrowing her eyes into thin slits and crossing her arms, she seethed with a long-held vexation, "This is so _typical_ of you, Thomas. You've always acted like you're some sort of victim of life's cruel circumstances. All Dad ever wanted was for you to take the straight and narrow, so that you might have some goodness in your life. For once could you at least _try_ to take a little responsibility?"

Phyllis wrapped her arms around herself as though physically chilled by the growing animosity in the room, "Perhaps we should all just—"

"Oh, don't you dare defend him, Phyllis!" interrupted Margaret. "He isn't one of those wounded animals you used to try to nurse back to health when we were children! He's a grown man, and it's high time he quit acting like some sort of martyr every time someone asks him to take responsibility for the way he's treated this family."

"The way _I've_ treated this family? Is that _really_ the argument you want to make?!" Thomas sputtered so flabbergasted at his sister's unmitigated gaul that he allowed flecks of spittle to fly unheeded from his mouth.

"You _abandoned_ us, Thomas. You like to think it's the other way around, but it's not. Where were you when Aaron died?! You were nowhere to be found because you were too selfish to give up the twisted life you lead." She rose from her seat, so that she was staring down at Thomas, her nostrils flaring and her pale skin turning a blotchy red.

Besought with anger, Thomas stood as well, sending his chair clattering to the floor as it tipped backwards. Yanking off his glove, he brandished the gnarled flesh of his injured hand as though it were a weapon. "You want to know where I was when Aaron died?! I was up at the front getting _this_ done to me!" The skin was thinner at the more damaged points where the bullet had made contact, allowing the blood vessels beneath to show through, which gave the illusion that one could see light shining directly through the appendage.

"Don't you _dare_ try to compare your blighty with my husband's _death_. Don't you _dare_." Her entire body shook as she spoke, "My husband _died_, and all you could manage to write was, _Sorry for your loss_. As though everything I've ever given up for you didn't even matter. As though I was some sort of distant acquaintance that you barely even knew!"

"I was at the front of the bloody war, woman! And what do you mean _everything you've given up_? When have you ever—"

"My God, Thomas! I always knew that you had your head up your— You know what Dad told me when Mum got sick? He told me, 'Sorry, Maggie. No more school for you. Somebody's got to watch after your little brother. Make sure he stays out of mischief.' And then when Dad was willing to give you the universe, when he was willing to work day-and-night so you could finish your education, so you could go to any school you wanted and fulfill your every dream— you decided that it was more important that you be able to live a life of _depravity_." Her eyes shone like glass as she struggled to keep tears from flowing down her face, "You were given _every_ opportunity in this world, and you _chose_ to throw it away."

"I didn't choose to throw _anything_ away, Margaret. Quit trying to rewrite history! _You_ threw _me_ away. I _begged_ you for help. You turned your back on me when I needed you most." He swallowed painfully against the lump that formed in his throat as he remembered the rejection.

"And just what would you have me do, Thomas? What were you even thinking?! You say that this doctor of yours claims that you're just the way nature made you, but even _he_ couldn't _possibly_ believe that you should _act upon_ your compulsions!" she replied utterly aghast at the memory of her brother's near downfall.

"What would I have you do? I would have had you show me just a little kindness, that's what!" Unsuccessful in his own battle to keep his tears at bay, he stood humiliated as the hot droplets of moisture streaked down his face, "I needed you and you abandoned me."

"And just how was I supposed to help you? I have my children to watch over on a widow's pension, and you expect me to take care of you as well? You said yourself that you wouldn't be able to find work! My husband had just _died_, and you expected me to have the strength to come running to your rescue? It's hard enough to make ends meet without having another mouth to—"

"Well, maybe I could have done something if you didn't shut me out," Thomas retorted scornfully. "Oh, and don't try to make this all about finances, Maggie! Stop rewriting history. You didn't want me around because you thought I might _corrupt_ your kids!"

Margaret's nostrils flared as she shot back, "Can you _blame_ me? _Of course_, I thought you were a bad influence. You were nearly _arrested_, Thomas! I can't even imagine what was going on in that head of yours! And once again, you're so wrapped up in playing the victim that you can't even acknowledge that I was _grieving_. I already had so much to worry about, and you expected me to come clean up your mess!"

Incensed, he dropped any and all pretense of common courtesy. "You needn't worry about me corrupting your little angels. I promise to keep my buggery to a—"

A stinging slap delivered quickly and painfully to his face cut his tirade short. As the red imprint of his sister's hand began to throb upon his cheek, he blinked at her in shock.

"You will _not_ use that sort of language in our father's home. Can't you even try to show a little respect?" she growled.

"Thomas, perhaps you should—" Phyllis attempted to interject.

"Oh, _shut up_, Phyllis!" he snarled at her. The visit was turning into everything that he had imagined it to be: an unmitigated disaster. And just then, blinded by his own ill humor and his own impotent rage, he found himself hating her. He hated her for letting him think that this journey would prove fruitful. He hated her for always thinking he could be a better man. And he hated her for allowing him to believe that he was capable of such a thing. "Just _shut up_! I _knew_ you would take her side! You keep pretending that you support me, but the _second_ I ask you to accept me for who and what I am, you say that you can't do it. You're just like her."

Phyllis began to open her mouth to object, to scold, to apologize—Thomas didn't care what it was she had to say, for he whirled around and stomped out of the room. He headed to the only place of refuge that he knew of in that house: his bedroom.

Slamming the door behind him, he stopped short as he took in the sight before him. The room was just as he remembered it: his narrow bed pressed firmly against one wall; the bureau where he imagined his old school uniform still lay, neatly folded and pressed; the small side table upon which an electric lamp—the only new addition—and a portrait of his mother sat. He heaved himself onto the bed and buried his face into the pillow, breathing in deeply the near forgotten smell of his childhood.

_You're acting like a spoiled brat_, his more rational and mature side whispered inside his head. "Shut up," he muttered into his pillow. _Just go out there and apologize. Stop behaving like such a twat. _ "Shut up," he muttered once more. He knew he was behaving foolishly, but he was too angry to care.

Before much time had passed, a tentative knock came at the door. "Leave me alone!" he yelled petulantly.

Through the wooden slab, he heard Phyllis plead, "Open the door, Thomas. Please."

He sat up in his bed and felt his already bitter mood souring even more. "Go away. I don't want to talk to anyone. _Leave me alone_!"

"Thomas. Please. Just open the door."

He swiftly crossed the length of the small bedroom in two strides and flung open the door. "I said, _leave me alone_!" he shouted as he slammed the door shut.

Or at least he tried to slam it; instead, he had only managed to crush Phyllis's little finger in the jamb. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but could only manage a tiny, sharp sob of pain as her face crumbled into a mask of anguish and tears began to flow down her cheeks.

**author's note: In the next chapter, Mr. Molesely comes to kick Thomas's butt! OK, not really. But it'd be an awesome twist, right?**

**Sorry about poor Phyllis's pinky—but it's been a while since Thomas has done anything particularly cruddy, so I'm afraid she was the collateral damage in this chapter. Please don't hate me for maiming her. Keep in mind that Thomas's dad died less than a week ago, so he's naturally going to face some bumps in the road to ****_wherever_**** it is that he's heading.**

**So who has the moral high ground in this argument? Anyone know? **

**I hope that Maggie is starting to feel a little more well-rounded. Previously, all we knew about her is what Thomas and Phyllis told us, but there's always more than one side to a story, right? Next chapter, you'll get to learn why she didn't help when Phyllis got out of prison.**

**I had spent a lot of time trying to create Maggie's husband, and had at first imagined some obnoxious bore whom Thomas could grumble about. But then I thought, "What if he's dead? Killed in the war, maybe?" and a whole new angle opened up for writing about the dynamics between the Barrow siblings. So, poor Corporal Aaron Howard, owner of Howard Baked Goods, became canon fodder for my story. #sorrynotsorry**

**By the way, I have no idea if one can systematically fire a bullet from a gatling gun. But the line sounded awesome, so meh.**


	15. Chapter 15

Horrified, Thomas gasped as he watched Phyllis clutch her trembling hand to her chest. "Oh please, oh please, oh please, oh please!" he whispered frantically. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Phyllis! I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry! Please be okay! I'm sorry!" He beseeched her as though he were reciting the mantra to a magical incantation with the power to turn back time and undo his actions. His tears of anger from only moments before had been instantly replaced with ones of regret.

"What in the _world_?!" asked Margaret as she came upon the commotion. "What happened?!"

"It— It was an accident," stuttered Thomas even though he knew that guilt was written all over his face.

Margaret shot him a look that clearly communicated that she didn't believe a word he had said. "Come along, Phyllis," she cooed as she wrapped a comforting arm around the crying woman's shoulder, "Let's get you sorted." She pushed passed Thomas into the small bedroom and beckoned for Phyllis to take a seat on the bed.

Shuffling from one foot to the other as he tried to contain his anxiety over the situation, Thomas appealed to Phyllis, "I could take a look at that, if you want me to."

"I think you've already done quite enough!" snapped Margaret as she examined the injured finger, which was already turning an ugly shade of purple.

In the relatively short amount of time that had passed, Phyllis had calmed enough to be able to offer her concerned friend a wain smile. "It's alright, Maggie. Really. Thomas knows what he's doing," she said as reassuringly as she could manage despite her voice quivering ever so slightly as she concentrated on not wincing from the pain that pulsated through her finger, into her hand, and down her arm.

"Are you _certain_?"

"Yes. I'm certain."

Thomas ran his hand through his hair, brushing the fringe from his forehead, and hesitantly asked his sister, "Could you fetch the first aid kit? And maybe see if there's any ice in the larder?" Seeing her reluctance to commence with the task, he quietly added, "I won't cause any more trouble; I promise."

Satisfied, albeit disinclined to depart the room, Margaret left to gather the requested items, shooting Thomas an accusatory glare as she vacated the bedroom.

Thomas swallowed stiffly as he slowly and carefully crossed the room and crouched down on the floor beside the bed. Speaking softly, as though he were afraid that he might startle her, he asked Phyllis, "May I see it?"

She nodded almost imperceptibly, and for the second time that day, he gently took her hand into his own. He gingerly pressed the length of the digit between his thumb and forefinger, carefully checking for any sign of a break or fracture. Years had passed since the war, since a time when anyone cared at all that he had been trained as a medic, and he found himself struggling to remember what needed to be done.

"Thomas?" asked Phyllis.

"I'm sorry. Am I hurting you?" he looked up at her, his brow creased with lines of worry.

"Your hands are shaking," she noted kindly as she looked into his eyes.

Thomas broke from her gaze, biting his lip as he commanded himself to be still. "You're my only friend in the world and I was angry and I thought that I hated you and now I've done _this _to you and now you must hate me. You were my only friend and I've gone and ruined that. I'm sorry Phyllis. I'm sorry. I know you must hate me," he spoke rapidly without paying much mind to his words, only to the urgency he felt at needing to get his thoughts out.

"There's a lot you seem to think you know, Thomas," she said softly. "It was an accident. I know you didn't intend to harm me."

For some odd reason, he felt himself insulted by her readiness to forgive him, and he snapped caustically, "You're completely daft if you think what I did is forgivable! I _squashed_ your finger in the door!"

"Don't misunderstand me, Thomas," she began, and he felt the sensation of his heart dropping into the pit of his stomach. "Of course, I'm jolly well _cheesed off_ with you! _Look at my poor finger for pity's sake!_ I swear, if it wasn't hurting so much I would smack you for throwing a temper tantrum like some sort of toddler." She paused as she took a deep breath before continuing, "But all that doesn't mean I've stopped loving you or caring for you."

"You should hate me."

"Thomas, you _smashed_ my finger in the _door_. You don't get to tell me what I should or shouldn't do," she pointed out with more than just a small measure of annoyance. "So, how does it look? Will you need to amputate?" She intended the last question as a joke, but the slight hitch in her voice revealed an unspoken fear as to the severity of her injury.

Doing his best to smile at her attempt to make light of the situation, he recommenced with examining the appendage for several long minutes before he felt moderately comfortable offering a verdict. "It isn't broken as far as I can tell. I'm pretty sure it's mostly just bruised—possibly sprained. We should—" he broke off from speaking as he saw Margaret reenter the room with the items he had requested, "We should splint and ice it for now, and then see about getting it X-rayed when we get home."

"Yes, that sounds like a good idea," said Phyllis. And then looking up at Margaret, she smiled and said, "See? I told you that he knows what he's doing."

"If you say so," replied Margaret not without admiration as she watched her baby brother carefully bandage the finger.

"You should keep it elevated as much as possible, and try to apply the ice ten minutes on and ten minutes off," he instructed, "Would you like something for the pain? There's a bottle of Laudanum in the first aid kit if you'd like some."

"Yes. I think I would. Thank you."

Margaret nodded, satisfied that disaster has been averted. "Let's get you ready for bed," she offered. "Thomas, would you clean up in the kitchen while I help Phyllis dress for bed? She can stay in your room tonight; you don't mind sleeping on the couch."

"Yeah, sure, of course," he said as he obediently left the room. He made his way down the hall, pausing for a moment to examine a framed photograph hanging on the wall of a young girl holding a baby, presumably his sister and himself. The girl looked directly into the camera, her dark hair arranged in two simple plaits draped over her shoulders, her face solemn. As for the baby, he was screaming his little head off for all that he was worth. Thomas wondered why there were no other photographs of the two of them together.

He entered the kitchen and surveyed the damage. Their half-eaten supper still remained exactly where they left it on the table—the potato and mutton sitting cold and dormant on their plates—and Thomas's chair still lay tipped on the floor like a turtle that had given up all hope of being righted. Numbly, he began gathering the plates and took them to the sink. He scrapped the potatoes into the bin his father had always used for taking scraps out to the composting heap in the side yard and was about to deposit the tired looking meat into the rubbish bin when he felt something soft rub against his leg.

He looked down to discover a large marmalade tabby cat peering up at him with huge amber eyes. "Well, hello there," Thomas greeted the feline, "You hungry?" The cat looked up at him and let out a pathetic, high-pitched _mew_ that was completely incongruous with its stocky build.

He set the plate of meat on the tile floor and watched with bemusement as the cat sniffed the dish before disdainfully sauntering off. "I know Maggie's cooking isn't the greatest, but it isn't all that bad," he muttered to the feline, which responded by stretching a hind limb into the air in order to clean its nether regions. "Well, that's just rude!" he chuckled to himself as he retrieved the lonely dish from the floor and went back to washing and drying the dishes. Once that task was complete, he moved on next to wiping down the surface of the table with a damp cloth before finally rescuing his chair from its undignified position.

Feeling satisfied that the condition of the room belied no indication of the row that had occurred only a short time earlier, he made his way to the couch. As he settled himself into place, he made a mental note that the embossed moiré fabric he remembered from his childhood had been replaced with a floral cotton chintz sometime within the last twenty years. He sat quietly wondering if the change carried any meaning but could find none. The cat, having deemed Thomas worthy in some way that only a cat can determine, made its way across the couch and curled itself into a ball in Thomas's lap.

"I see Mr. Fluffybumkins has made your acquaintance," said Margaret from her vantage point at the other end of the room.

Thomas looked down at the cat with surprise, "You can't possibly mean—"

Margaret laughed, "No, I'm afraid he's not the same cat you had when you were a boy!"

Thomas looked over the cat with curiosity, "Do you suppose he'll have kittens like the original Mr. Fluffybumkins?"

"I'm afraid not. Unlike the original, he really is a _he_."

Thomas scratched the cat behind the ear and quietly wondered why the ridiculous name had been passed on. As a thank you, the purring cat began to rhythmically—and painfully—knead Thomas's thigh.

Doing his best to momentarily ignore the needle pricks being administered to his leg, Thomas asked, "How is she?"

"Sleeping. The Laudanum seems to have done the trick; she was asleep before her head even hit the pillow." She sat down next to him and smoothed the cat's fur with her hand. Mr. Fluffybumkins yawned and stretched, his back arching like a bow. He hopped off Thomas's lap leaving a thin layer of soft orange fur behind.

"Good. That's good," he said mostly to himself as he attempted to brush the shed fur from his trousers.

"You know, you're quite fortunate that she thinks of you as a friend," Margaret noted pointedly.

"You sound like Mr. Molesely," replied Thomas, remembering their run-in a few days prior in the Men's Corridor.

"He sounds like a very wise man."

Thomas chuckled softly, "Now, you sound like Phyllis."

Margaret didn't respond.

He looked at her for a moment, studying her face, before finally saying, "She told me that she wrote to you."

"She did."

"But you didn't want to help her."

"No. I didn't."

Thomas swallowed as he tried to understand. "Do you hate her?" he finally asked.

Margaret shook her head. "No, it's not that. It's— Did you know the last time I saw Phyllis Baxter in the flesh, I was fifteen? She found a job as a house maid for a family over in Sheffield, and, well— Well, we grew apart. We wrote to each other a few times over the years, but— Like I said, we grew apart." She looked down at her hands and fidgeted with her wedding band, a simple silver ring without any adornments, "One day, I receive a letter from a _women's penitentiary_. And there's this woman I can barely even remember, who I can't even picture in my mind's eye anymore, there's this woman asking if I wouldn't mind her staying for a bit until she got herself sorted out."

"So you told her no," stated Thomas, providing the conclusion to Margaret's explanation.

"So I told her no," she confirmed.

The room was silent for some time, save for the ticking of the clock, before Margaret spoke again. "She seems like she's trying to be a good influence for you," she observed quietly.

"She is," Thomas affirmed, "You might not believe it, but I'm trying to be a better man."

"I do believe it. But— But here's what you need to understand about Phyllis: she always wants to believe the best in everyone and everything."

"Isn't that a good thing?"

Instead of answering his question directly, Margaret continued on to say, "When we were children, Phyllis was always finding stray animals to care for—baby birds that had fallen out of the nest, that sort of thing. This was all before you were born. I must have been about six since it was only a few days after Dad came back from _Watt's_ with Mum's box camera, so that would have made Phyllis around ten or so. As I was saying: one day, Phyllis comes across the _ugliest _dog you can possibly imagine. And this beast is _growling_ and _snarling_ at her. But does little Phyllis Baxter use her head and leave the mongrel alone?"

"I'm going to make a wild guess and say, _no_."

"Good guess. So, there's Phyllis believing that the world is full of sunshine and rainbows trying to coax the animal to accept a pat on the head. And, of course, it bit her on the leg before running off."

"Blimey!" exclaimed Thomas.

Margaret waved a dismissive hand, "Don't worry. She _lived_. Spent a month in hospital getting jabs to ward off rabies, but she managed to survive. Obviously."

"Am I supposed to be the rabid dog in this story?" asked Thomas feeling somewhat offended.

"Mmm? Well, _no_. I was actually planning to tell you this story _before_ you tried taking her finger off with the door."

"I wasn't trying to— Well, then who _is_ the rabid dog?"

Margaret shrugged slightly, "I don't know. When I found out that she had been in prison, the first thing I thought was _Oh, there's Phyllis, getting bitten because she wants to see the good in everyone_. I'm right, aren't I? She went to prison because she fell in love with someone and thought that she could change him."

"I don't—"

"But I _am_ right, aren't I?"

Thomas shrugged slightly, "I don't know the exact details of what happened. And even if I did, it's not really my story to tell."

"I suppose you're right," she said reluctantly.

He went back to his futile attempt at extracting the cat hair from the front of his trousers. After a moment, Margaret commented, "I hope that's not the only suit you brought."

"What? No. No, I brought a proper black one as well."

"Good. That's good," she said before continuing, her voice hued with the color of maternal protectiveness, "Are they feeding you over there? You look thin."

"Yes, they're feeding me."

"Good." She was quiet for a moment and then said softly, "I'm sorry for suggesting your work isn't important. I know there's a lot more to it than tying bootlaces. I was just angry."

"I know."

She offered him an approving smile. "You did really well in there, tending to Phyllis. The army did a wonderful job training you to be a medic."

"Well, I'm certain no _doctor_, but I—" The words died in his throat as he watched his sister suddenly dissolve into tears. Confused, he asked, "What's wrong?"

"Is it my fault?" she asked.

"I don't under—"

"They say that it's the mum's fault. I know I'm not your mum. Not really. But, they say that it's the mum's fault for being too coddling or not coddling enough. I can't remember which it is. And, _Edmund_. He's doing so well with his education, but he's— He's never had a girlfriend. Never shown any interest in girls at all and— Is it my fault? Please Thomas, tell me. Am I the reason you're— that you're the way you are? Am I to blame? Is it something I said or—"

"No, Maggie. No, no, no. God, no," he whispered. "I don't— I don't think anyone is to blame. It's just how I am. And I don't think— I don't think there's anything really wrong with being how I am. But even if there was, it doesn't have anything to do with anything you ever could have done. You were an _amazing_ mum to me."

"I really wasn't, but thank you for saying so," she wrung her hands as she hunched her shoulders.

"Is that why you don't want me around the boys?" he asked as the realization slowly crept upon him. "Do you think I'll— I don't know— Do you think I'll _encourage_ Edmund to be like me?"

She said nothing as she traced a finger along the floral edge of the couch's cotton chintz. A fleeting notion struck Thomas that it was almost as if she was trying to trace a path back to their childhood. But he dismissed the thought as being overly romantic for his no-nonsense sister. Trying again, he asked, "Do you believe me to be unhappy?"

She cocked her head to one side as she rapidly blinked her pale blue eyes at him. "Of course you're unhappy, Thomas. How could you _not_ be unhappy with the sort of life you lead?"

"What sort of life do you think I'm leading, Maggie?"

She closed her eyes as images of debauchery and wanton behavior danced in her mind. "You were nearly arrested," she stated simply.

"Yeah, I know," he said, "I fell in love with someone and, it turned out I wasn't— I wasn't exactly his _type_. But do you really believe that makes me a terrible person, Maggie? Falling in love with someone. Do you really think that's so awful?"

"I don't believe you're a terrible person, Thomas," she replied, dodging his question.

"But you're scared that I could influence your children to be like me."

"Of course, I'm scared. I'm scared for them, and I'm scared for _you_. What sort of future, what sort of _life_ do you even hope to have?"

He knew in his heart that he was unlikely to completely turnaround his sister's ideologies in a single evening, but he hoped to at the very least plant a small seed in her mind. "The same one you want. The same one everyone wants: to be loved and to have someone to love. Isn't that what you want for Edmund? And for Geoffrey? For them both?"

"But how can you ever expect to have that when you're so willing, so _eager_, to just accept your— your _illness_? to embrace it?" she implored. "Don't you _want_ to live the life God has intended for us all?"

He sighed, knowing that there are some hurdles that just cannot be overcome in a single evening's conversation. "Maggie, I know you're worried about Edmund. And about me. I wish I could tell you that things will be easy for him. But I don't believe it's our place to dictate God's intentions for us— I'm this way because that's how God chose to make me. All I can do is live the life God has granted me as best I can. I have no idea if Edmund is like me. What I do know is that he—that everybody—needs to be able to live the life that God bestowed even if it is a difficult one."

She sat quietly without moving, but she didn't voice an objection, so Thomas took that as a small sign of acceptance.

"And you're wrong," he continued, "What you said about me being dad's favorite. You were always the one who knew how to make him happy. Not like me—always getting into trouble."

She looked at him and grimaced slightly, "Is that what you think? Dad— To Dad, I was invisible. I was the good daughter who always did what she was told. Always lived by Dad's rules and never made any bother or fuss. And I was invisible. With you— Dad had dreams for you. Dreams for what your future would hold. He never had any of those dreams for me."

Thomas didn't know how to respond as his sister's revelation struck him. He felt a dull ache building in his chest as he struggled against the emotions surging within him. "I— I'm sorry I couldn't be here sooner. Truly, I am."

"I know. I know you came as soon as you could. I just— I think a part of me was angry that you had to leave in the first place. I know I should be angry at Dad for that, but Dad—"

"But Dad's dead."

"Yes. And these past few years—even before he broke his hip— He just hasn't been— Sometimes, he wouldn't even recognize me. He would think I was _Mum. _ And other times, he would ask me, _Maggie, are you looking after your little brother? I'm worried about him. He keeps getting in fights with the other boys at school. Why haven't you been minding him better_? And then there were those times in between and he would ask where you were. _Did Thomas marry that lovely Amelia girl? Oh, I like that Amelia! Such a sweet girl. Are they happy?_"

"You should have told me, Maggie."

She squeezed her eyes shut, "But how could I when he would then ask, _Is Thomas still going on with his nonsense? Is he still flitting about?_ And I've just been so _angry_ with you, Thomas. If you could have just done as Dad wanted, I wouldn't have had to go at it alone."

"Maggie," he began, not knowing what he wanted to say next, "Maggie, I would have been there for you if I could have. You should have told me sooner. I'm sorry I couldn't be there when Dad started having trouble. And I'm sorry I couldn't be there to help when Aaron died."

"Were you scared?" she asked.

He didn't answer, for he knew that she was asking about the war and, therefor, about her husband's final moments.

"It was a year after Aaron was killed. A man came to the door with a telegram from the War Office, and all I could think was, _Oh, please God, no. Don't do this to me again. Please, God. Don't do this to me again._ Please, tell me, Thomas. Were you scared?" she beseeched.

"I don't— I don't think there was a time when any of us weren't scared. But— There was this bloke. Another medic. He was there with me in the trenches. And, he said— He said something about how when it's your time to go, it's your time. And then he was— And then he was shot. In the head. And he died." It was difficult for him to get out the words to a story he had told no one, not even O'Brien. "But, he didn't suffer."

"What about the others? The ones who didn't go as quickly?" she urged.

He pressed his lips together as he struggled through his memories of events he would have preferred to have forgotten. "When they trained me to be a medic, they had me learn all sorts of first aid: how to properly irrigate a wound, how to do stitches, how to resuscitate. But in the field, you don't have time or the proper conditions for any of that. To be honest, I don't know if I ever did much good being at the front. But, I know that I did what I could to keep them from suffering. I'd make sure that they had enough morphine that the journey to the hospital would feel like a blissful daydream."

"Is that how it was when you hurt your hand? Was it like a daydream?" she asked hopefully.

"I didn't— I didn't have any morphine. I didn't want it."

Margaret blinked at him in confusion. "But why not? Despite what I may have said earlier, I'm thankful your injury didn't cause you any permanent suffering. But _surely_ it must have been terribly painful."

"Um, you see, there was this American fellow— I can't remember his name— He was a general or something in their Civil War. Anyway, he said that _War is hell_. And, he was absolutely right. I was in those trenches for two years, and every single day of it was like being in hell. When I— When I volunteered for the Medical Corps, I thought that it would be a way to escape all of the violence and death. Not just for myself. Although, I'm not going to pretend that I didn't hope to make it out of that mess in one piece. But, it was more than that. I didn't want to be responsible for another man's death. I thought if I was a medic, I'd be somewhere in the background tending to the wounded. But instead, I was _right there_. And it was hell," he paused for a breath before continuing, "So, when I was hit, I was thankful. I thanked God for delivering me from that place. That's why I didn't want the morphine; because every ounce of pain that I went through was a sign that God wanted me to be safe."

"Thomas," Margaret asked softly, "Did you do it on purpose? Did you allow yourself to be injured intentionally?"

His voice was nearly inaudible as he whispered, "Yes." He struggled to meet his sister's gaze, and when he finally managed to do so, he asked, "Are you ashamed of me?"

She sat stone-faced for what felt like an eternity to Thomas before she spoke, "The last year of the war, Edmund wanted to join up. He was only seventeen at the time, so he was too young to enlist legitimately, but he was planning to lie about his age. I told him that if he even thought about joining in on that God forsaken war, I would kill him. And yes, I know that sounds a bit contradictory. I'm a mother; it's my prerogative to be contradictory when it comes to my children." She reached out and squeezed Thomas's hand, gently caressing the scar with her thumb. He had forgotten to replace his glove, and the unfamiliar, almost forgotten, sensation of being touched there sent a shiver through his body. "Does anyone else know?"

He shook his head. If O'Brien had suspected that his blighty was anything more than a stroke of dumb luck, she never thought to use that knowledge against him. "I don't think so. I think— I think, Mr. Crawley may have."

"Mr. Crawley?"

"He was Lord Grantham's heir."

"Is that the one that died on the Titanic or the one in the car— What am I saying? Of course it wasn't the Titanic if he was around for the war," Margaret muttered softly to herself.

"How do you know about Mr. Crawley's accident?"

"It wasn't exactly front page news, Thomas. But when the heir to an English earl dies in a car wreck, it does make the papers."

"Oh. Okay," said Thomas, somewhat befuddled. "Well, I suspect Mr. Crawley knew even though he never said anything to me. I had asked him if there was any possible way to be transferred away from the front, and he said that a fairly serious injury would be needed. At the time, I thought he was just— I don't know. Just answering my perfectly _innocent_ question, I suppose. But, the man wasn't an idiot—"

"Well, he may not have been an idiot, but he was a rubbish driver if you ask me," his sister interjected. If Thomas had ever wondered about the origin of his sardonic streak, he was looking at her just then.

"Well, he wasn't an idiot. Rubbish driver, like you said. But he wasn't an idiot. He must have known what I would do. He must have. You don't offer a desperate man that sort of advice without considering that he might take it. But I don't think he was trying to trick me or test me. He was much too good a man to do something like that. He was a solicitor before coming to Downton, so I think that maybe— Maybe, he saw me as being like one of his clients in need of legal advice?" Thomas mulled over the role played in his salvation by his unlikely benefactor. "At any rate, by the time it even occurred to me that he may not have been speaking in abstract, it was too late for me to ask. We were back at Downton and that— that camaraderie that's in the trenches— it just doesn't exist once you're back in the world. And, then he died. So there's that as well."

"When Aaron was killed," began Margaret, "All the women in the village came to visit. And they kept saying, _Oh, Maggie! Sacrificing his life for King and country in a war of such great importance! How proud you must be!_ And I just wanted to claw their sanctimonious eyes out. As though I should be pleased that my children have been robbed of a father, me of a husband. So, to answer your question: no, I'm not ashamed of you. If you ask me, that whole useless, pointless war can sod off for all I care."

Thomas could count on one hand the number of times he could remember hearing his sister swear, and so he felt almost as scandalized at the coarseness of her language as he felt shocked at her ready acceptance of his confession. Not wishing to dwell any further on the matter, he turned his attention to the stack of papers atop the secretary at the far corner of the room. "What's all _this_?" he inquired, indicating with his chin.

Margaret sighed as she pinched the bridge. "_That_ is the reason I was even here today. A solicitor will be stopping by sometime next week, and he wanted me to see if Dad left a will. Apparently, the estate needs to be sorted."

"Dad had an _estate_?!" exclaimed Thomas, deeply confused.

"This house and the shop. I know it's not a _Downton Abbey_ or anything, but it still needs to be taken care of," she explained

"Well, that should be simple enough to sort out. Everything will go to you, obviously."

Margaret shook her head, "No. Not obviously."

Thomas declared decisively, "Well, it's not going to me; that's for certain. Dad disowned me."

"Not officially. At least, I don't _think_ he did. Dad was never much for paperwork. And, I suppose if he did leave a will, he would be his typical self and leave everything to _your_ children. He always did like to win an argument."

Thomas still felt confused by the matter, "I still don't understand why you think it would go to me. You're older."

"I'm also a woman."

"Oh," replied Thomas, feeling foolish for not already knowing after all the troubles faced by the Crawleys, "I thought Parliament had sorted that out."

"They did. But the new law doesn't go into effect until January. So, right now it's a bit up in the air whether everything goes to you, or to Edmund, or to Cousin Milford in Bombay."

"Or to my nonexistent children. Right," finished Thomas, now better comprehending the matter. "Are you upset with me?"

"For possibly inheriting? No. Not really. Maybe a bit," she admitted. "I'm mostly upset that Dad's left us all not knowing."

"Well, it should go to you. You're the one who took care of Dad," he concluded.

"Put up with him, you mean to say," she corrected.

"That too."

He could feel his eyelids begin to droop, weighed down as they were with lack of sleep over the past few days, and he stifled back a yawn. "Maggie, if it means anything, I didn't know you had to give up school to watch me. I'm sorry you had to do that."

"Not your fault. Besides, I doubt I would have done much of anything with it. I don't think I was ever very clever." Her voice was tinged with sadness and sounded as if it was coming from a long distance off.

"That's not true."

She didn't answer.

Thomas rearranged himself on the couch so that his back and head rested against the armrest and his stockinged feet relaxed on the cushion between him and his sister. "Will you tell me story, Maggie?"

She smiled slightly. "A story? Like when you were little?"

"Yeah. Tell me about Mum. Tell me a story about Mum."

The hint of a smile that had begun to bloom on Margaret's face took hold, and it was as though her very soul lit up from within. "Mum was— She was _funny_. I remember how she was always laughing, always making Dad laugh. And she had the wickedest sense of humor, too! This one time she had convinced Dad that the radiator was…."

Thomas didn't hear the rest of the story because he had already fallen asleep.

**Author's Note 1: **

**This chapter ended up being CRAZY long. I hope no one minds! It was originally going to be combined with chapter 14, but I thought Thomas should stew for a while not knowing how Phyllis is doing. By the way, Phyllis is currently feeling FANtastic because Laudanum is also known as "tincture of opium." Yum, yum, yum!**

**This was a real enjoyable chapter to write—as soon as I came up with what would seem like a minor bit of detail to dress things up, I would start understanding so much more about Thomas's and Maggie's childhood and why they're both the way they are as well as the sort of people their parents were. If you can, try to give it a second reading because I really made an effort to put in these little details that might not be noticeable the first time through. **

**I had been dying for Thomas to confess what really happened to his hand, but I didn't want it to be to Phyllis because he already ****_knows_**** that she would forgive him. Telling his sister meant taking a genuine risk.**

**Apologies for ragging on Phyllis a bit— I love her as much as you do! But I thought it might be interesting to see how someone might have a legitimate reason for not being quite so crazy about her. What can I say? There's a curmudgeonly streak going through the Barrow gene pool.**

**Author's Note 2:**

**In case anyone is wondering, here's the timeline I'm using for this story (plus a few historical tidbits that I've tried to throw in for greater verisimilitude)**

**The current year is 1925; Thomas left Belpher 20 years ago (1905) at age 14 making him 34 years old now. He was born in 1891 and his mother died when he was four years old in 1895.**

**Phyllis was born in 1878 and is 47 years old (13 years older than Thomas) and left Belpher for a job in Manchester when she was 19 in 1897 when Thomas was 6 years old. She was bit by a (possibly rabid) dog in 1888 but didn't end up foaming at the mouth because, lucky for her, Luis Pasteur had invented the rabies vaccination in 1885. At that time, the vaccination was quite literally a month of very painful injections, so poor Phyllis was NOT a happy camper. Maggie remembers the year because her father bought a KODAK box camera, which he purchased on a trip to Manchester at Watts department store (now known as Kendals), when they were first introduced to the general buying public in 1888.**

**Maggie is four years younger than Phyllis and nine years older than Thomas and was born in 1882. She married her husband Aaron Howard (1872-1915) in 1900 when she was 18 and Thomas was 9, leaving home at that time. She would have been 13 when their mother died. The Elementary Education Act of 1883 put the compulsory age for schooling at 11 (this law was amended in 1899 to 13, which Daisy mentions in a S5 episode). Maggie would have already completed her compulsory education and was enrolled in some sort of continuing education program when their father asked her to leave school in order to watch over Thomas. It has been my long standing belief that Thomas comes from a middle class background, which would allow him and his sister to attend school longer than what was mandated by law.**

**In the UK, the minimum age to serve in combat overseas was 19. During WWI, many young men lied about their ages just as Edmund had planned. He had turned 17 by the final year of the war and was born in 1901 when Thomas was 10. His brother Geoffrey was born two years later in 1903 when Thomas was 12. Edmund is now 24 and Geoffrey is 22. **

**The new law mentioned by Thomas was the Law of Property Act of 1925. I'm not sure what effect it would have on Margaret's ability to inherit—but that's why she's talking to an attorney instead of me.**

**Author's Note 3:**

**By the way, I'm a bit torn over whether I should end the story at the point I had originally intended. I have the ****_perfect_**** ending in mind—but if I end it there, Thomas won't have an chance to explain his animosity towards Branson (at least, not one that feels organic). And if I do continue the story, I'll be able to add a cute little Andy-centric scene that came to me the other night. And I know that will make you all happy…. but then I have no real end to the story. Which I suppose will also make you all happy. But I prefer to have a proper ending and not just fizzle out.**

**Author's Note 4 (June 17): I changed the sons' names from Edward to Edmund (because I wanted to open the possibility of including something about Edward Courtenay without causing confusion... I also changed the names of a couple of the hall boys for the same reason) and Jeffrey to Geoffrey because I like the spelling better.**


	16. Chapter 16

A ray of sunlight dancing upon his eyelids beckoned Thomas to leave the comfort of his dreamless slumber. For a brief moment upon first awakening, he wasn't entirely certain where he was. But gradually he became reacquainted with his current surroundings and remembered that he was back in his boyhood home. With a yawn, he stretched his legs, disturbing Mr. Fluffybumkins who, yowling, protested this inconsiderate interruption to his sleep by digging his claws into Thomas's ankle eliciting a mild yelp from the man. As he endeavored to extricate the feline's curved talons from his flesh without causing himself any further damage, Thomas couldn't help remarking that sometime during the night a knitted blanket had been draped over him. The room had a biting chill to it at that early morning hour, so Thomas pulled the blanket up to his chin and nestled into its warm.

"I remember your mother knitting that when she was expecting you," said a familiar voice from behind him.

"Did she?" he asked with a sleepy yawn. He traced a fingertip along the scalloped edges of the pale grey wool and mused, "It seems a bit big for a baby blanket, don't you think?"

"She said that she wanted something large enough to snuggle together with both you and your sister."

Feeling the air catching in his throat as his chest tightened in response to this revelation about a time from before even his earliest memories, Thomas focused his attention on examining the purls and knits lovingly fashioned by a woman he never had a chance to know. To think that every time a woolen loop passed from one needle to the other, she was telling her children how much she loved them. Wrapped in his mother's warmth, Thomas tried—as he had so many times before in his life—to remember what she was like but couldn't.

The whistling of a kettle upon the stove interrupted Thomas's thoughts. He propped himself up and gazed over the back of the couch at Phyllis, who was presently occupying herself with shooing away Mr. Fluffybumkins who was bound and determined to continue his nap on top of the wooden dining table in the small alcove next to the kitchen. For a moment, Thomas felt as though he had been transported back to his childhood. Looking at Phyllis in her blue dressing gown and bare feet with her hair in a simple plait draped over one shoulder, Thomas idly wondered if he had only dreamt of his life at Downton Abbey. But then he caught sight of her bandaged finger, and he was overcome with a wave of guilt.

"You shouldn't be doing that," he called out as he sat up, the blanket still wrapped around him.

"What's that?" called Phyllis from the kitchen who, having won a temporary victory against the very determined Mr. Fluffybumkins, could now be heard rummaging through various cupboard doors.

"I said— Never mind," Thomas sighed as he reluctantly climbed out of his warm cocoon. He already knew that he would never be able to convince her to take things easy if he stuck to barking commands from the couch. He strode into the kitchen and relieved Phyllis of the kettle. "Sit down you. I'll take care of breakfast."

"But—" Phyllis attempted to protest.

"No _buts_. Sit!"

Phyllis settled herself at the table. "How did you manage after I went to bed? I'm sorry I couldn't stay awake longer. I think Maggie may have gone a bit overboard with the Laudanum."

Thomas, who had been busy gathering cups and saucers from their designated spots in the cupboards, stuck his head through the arch separating the kitchen from the dining alcove and remarked, "Better than expected. I hate to say it, but your finger was probably one of the best things that could have happened to me and Maggie."

Wrinkling her nose, Phyllis offered a rather dry "glad I could help" in reply.

"Well, you do what you can," Thomas teased good-naturedly as he carried a tray bearing a small porcelain tea pot, three mismatched cups with three mismatched saucers, three teaspoons, a small bowl of sugar, and a small carafe of cream. "Would you like some porridge? There isn't much else in the pantry, I'm afraid."

"Are you sure I can't help just a bit?" She was looking at Thomas, her eyes filled with concern, and he knew that she was thinking about the funeral and about its effect on him. She still had that same look in her eyes that she always had when she was thinking about him instead of her own welfare, and Thomas wanted nothing more in that moment than to ease her mind.

"Yes, I'm sure. Now, sit down and drink your tea," he scolded. "Porridge?"

"Yes, that would be lovely. Thank you." She was still gazing at him, and Thomas was certain that she was going to say something about the funeral or Maggie or both; but instead, she giggled quietly into her hand.

Giving her a tentative half-smile, Thomas inquired, "You finding something amusing?"

"Yes, but," she shrugged, still laughing quietly to herself, "you'll find out about it later."

Thomas harrumphed a bit, but he knew that he had already used up much of the good will that allowed Phyllis to forgive his sour moods, and so he did not push the matter any further.

"I'm glad that you and Maggie are getting along better," remarked Phyllis as she stirred a teaspoon of sugar into her tea.

"Yeah. I think we both just needed to vent our spleens before we could talk about the things that matter."

"I'm glad," said Phyllis sincerely. She did not pressure Thomas to elaborate but instead guessed correctly that he wished to keep the matter private. In all likelihood, Thomas mused to himself, she was already well aware of the sacrifices her childhood friend had made in her life.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

She held her hand out in front of her and examined the bandaged finger thoughtfully. "I'm still a bit tender but much better compared to last night."

Breathing out a long sigh of relief, Thomas replied, "Good. Probably not broken, but let's keep it wrapped up just in case. Did you manage to get much sleep?"

"As I said before, Maggie was a bit heavy handed with the Laudanum," she paused slightly for dramatic effect before coyly asking, "Lady Mary doesn't own a pet hippopotamus, does she?"

"But of course! What sort of aristocrat doesn't own a pet hippopotamus," replied Thomas with a grin. He was happy to see that Phyllis was in a good mood, for he knew that the journey hadn't been easy for her, what with an injured finger being the least of her worries.

"Well, in my dream, I had to sew matching ballgowns for the two of them."

"Makes sense. Wouldn't want them to clash after all," he said as he stood up, stretched, and headed back to the kitchen to finish preparations for breakfast. Decades had gone by since the last time he was in school, but as he spooned the warm porridge into a pair of bowls, he couldn't help imagining Miss Darby giving a lecture on Newtonian fluids. It was odd the sort of images one conjures up when standing in one's childhood home.

He carried the bowls into the dining alcove and placed one in front of Phyllis before settling down into his own place at the table.

Phyllis gazed around the room before noting, "I suppose Maggie won't be up for a while. I can't remember the last time I slept past dawn."

"I don't know how she manages to run a bakery when she sleeps until seven." _Of course, given her cooking, it's hard to imagine her running a bakery at all_.

As though she were reading Thomas's mind, Phyllis replied, "I asked her last night—when she was helping me dress for bed—I asked if the boys were minding the bakery, and she said, 'No, Paul the baker is.' So, I suppose it isn't necessary for her to get up before dawn if she isn't the one doing the baking." She sipped at her tea before continuing thoughtfully, "Thomas, I'm really quite proud of you. You've been working so hard to become a kinder, more forgiving person. And just look at you now: getting along with your sister after so many years. You even seem to be on friendlier terms with Mr. Bates, and I never thought I'd see the day."

"Well, I suppose Mr. Bates isn't so bad. I mean, there's his whole obsession with killing people, but I reckon the man just isn't able to help himself," replied Thomas.

Phyllis nearly choked on her tea as she sputtered, "_What_?! Thomas, have you been drinking the Laudanum?"

"Here me out, please," requested Thomas as he fought the urge to grin. "I just don't see how anybody could believe that his ex wife offed herself with a pie. That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard of. Suicide by pie? Pies are delicious. Nobody would kill themselves with a pie."

"She didn't kill herself with a _pie_. She killed herself with _arsenic_. It just happened to be in a pie."

"What's the sense in ruining a perfectly good pie with arsenic? And that Green fellow. Now, from what I've gathered—_no thanks to you_—but, from what I've gathered, the bloke probably— no, _definitely_, had it coming to him, but—"

"Mr. Bates did not kill Mr. Green," interrupted Phyllis.

"But you haven't heard my theory yet," Thomas pouted.

"I don't _need _to hear it, Thomas. Mr. Molesely and I traipsed over half of York looking for a publican who could clear Mr. Bates's name. I didn't give myself a bunion—"

"Ew!" exclaimed Thomas as he wrinkled his nose in disgust.

Rolling her eyes, Phyllis continued, "I didn't give myself a bunion just for you to have a _theory_. I spoke the publican myself, and I can assure you that Mr. Bates is innocent."

"Well, that was just Mr. Bates in a disguise."

"_What_?!"

Forcing himself not to smile, for doing so would destroy the effect, Thomas explained solemnly, "The publican you spoke to: _that_ was just Mr. Bates wearing a disguise."

"Thomas, it was _not_ Mr. Bates wearing a disguise. There is at least a two stone difference between the two of them," Phyllis explained very slowly as though she were speaking to a very small, somewhat brain-addled child.

"Pillow under his shirt," he countered.

"A pillow under his shirt?"

"Yeah. Don't see why not."

"Thomas, the publican was _thinner_ than Mr. Bates."

"Right. Mr. Bates keeps a pillow stuffed under his shirt."

Struggling not to smile, for she knew that doing so would be a victory for the utterly exasperating man sitting across from her, she echoed, "Mr. Bates keeps a pillow stuffed under his shirt. Do I dare ask why?"

"In case he ever needed a murder alibi. I thought that was obvious," he said as he munched on a spoonful of porridge.

"How silly of me. But that still doesn't mean that it was Mr. Bates in disguise. For one thing, the publican was bald."

"Oh, that's easy. Mr. Bates wears a toupee."

"_That's_ your theory? Mr. Bates wears a toupee and keeps a pillow stuffed under his shirt just in case he should require a murder alibi?"

Nodding with satisfaction, Thomas concluded, "I can't find a single flaw in it; can you?"

Smirking, Phyllis replied with a note of triumph in her voice, "Well, for one thing, _you're_ still alive."

Thomas threw his head back laughing boisterously as he relented, "Okay, you have me there!"

"She has you where?" asked Margaret as she entered the room. She was already dressed in a modest black dress, her hair neatly pinned into a bun. She regarded her younger brother for a moment before clucking her tongue as she admonished him, "Good Lord, Thomas! Have you seen yourself this morning?"

"What?" he asked in confusion.

Phyllis covered her mouth with her hand as she began to giggle.

Thomas gave her a sharp look that did nothing to quell her laughter. "_What_?!"

Clucking her tongue again, Margaret scolded, "I suggest you visit the loo and have a look at yourself in the mirror."

Still feeling a combination of embarrassment and confusion, Thomas rose from the table. "There's tea and porridge if you want it," he muttered as he made his way to the lavatory.

Entering the cramped room with its faded pink and lavender striped wallpaper, he couldn't help noticing with no small measure of relief that the outdoor privy from his childhood had been replaced with proper indoor plumbing. He turned to look in the mirror hanging over the wash basin and immediately found the source for Phyllis's amusement. Proper dress for a male servant required that one's hair be kept neatly slicked back—thinking about it now, he felt a wee bit jealous that Jimmy always seemed to get away with having his blond locks flopping about—but Thomas generally preferred to forgo using any pomade on his days off. Unfortunately, he had been so pressed for time the previous day that he hadn't had time to wash the wax out of his hair before leaving for the train station. Despite the best efforts of the previous evening's rainstorm, his hair now stood straight up in the air on the left side of his head. He leaned his head out the water closet's door and yelled down the hall, "So, _that's_ what was so funny!"

As the sound of Phyllis's twinkling laughter danced back to him, Margaret remarked, "You have time to wash up, Thomas. We won't need to leave here for another hour and a half."

Feeling more than a bit elated at not needing to share facilities with an entire household of servants, Thomas called back, "Yes, indeed; I believe I will!" He quickly darted out to the entryway to retrieve his shaving kit from his bag and then returned to the lavatory. Twirling the hot and cold water taps to begin filling the tub, he yelled over the sound of the rushing water, "When did Dad update the plumbing?"

"About six, maybe seven, years ago. His doctor thought that a daily soak would help with his rheumatism. It took a bit of work, but I managed to convince him to update the rest of it."

"Wonderful!" yelled Thomas as he unbuttoned his shirt. He finished undressing, laying his clothes neatly on top of the closed lid of the toilet and made a mental note to take the garment to the laundry in Ripon. He felt somewhat foolish for not wanting to clean the items himself, but he knew that he would never find the time to remove the tuffs of ginger fur that clung to the suit like glue. He carefully eased himself into the steaming hot water, relaxed as the suds enveloped his body, and tilted his head back to wet his hair. Once he was satisfied that the pomade had been properly washed away, he moved on to the task of shaving. "Hey, Maggie!" he yelled again as he lathered his face with shaving cream. Thoughtfully regarding his reflection in the shaving kit's hand mirror, which was squeezed awkwardly between his knees in order to keep his hands free to maneuver his razor, he commenced with the first stroke of the blade.

"What?"

"I hope you don't mind that I'm moving in," he said carefully gliding razor's edge against his skin.

"What? _Where_? Dad's house?" she yelled back in confusion.

"No!" Thomas yelled as he regarded his reflection and checked for any stray patches of beard stubble, "Just the bathtub! You have _no idea_ what it's like to share a lavatory with teenage boys!" Although he was as grateful as anyone with a working pair of nostrils would be that Mr. Carson had implemented a strict daily bathing rule for the hall boys, the rule did mean having only a few short minutes available to oneself for washing up.

The lavatory door swung open suddenly as Margaret stuck her head inside and exclaimed, "No idea?! I have two boys, _remember_?!"

Dropping the hand mirror and razor in the tub with a resounding _sploosh _and scrambling to cover himself with a wash cloth, Thomas yelled, "A _little_ privacy, please!"

"Don't be silly," she said as she rolled her eyes, "It's not as though it's anything I haven't seen before. Besides, I thought you might like something to dry yourself off once you're done." Ignoring Thomas's protests, she walked into the bathroom and hung a large white towel on a hook by the tub. "I swear, one of the first lessons I learned when those two became teenagers was to always _knock,_" she muttered.

"_That's_ the lesson you learned?! Could have fooled me," Thomas groused.

Folding her arms as she stared up at the ceiling as though calling upon a higher source for strength, Margaret grumbled, "Ugh, and the _laundry_. They think that I don't know, but I'm their mother. Of course, I know—"

"_Ahem_!"

"What?" she asked blinking at him.

"_Get out_!" he hollered.

Margaret rolled her eyes but left the room nevertheless, calling over her shoulder, "I laid your suit out on top of the dresser in your bedroom. And you should say 'thank you' for the towel unless you were planning on flashing God's gifts to Phyllis and Mr. Fluffybumkins."

"_Thank you_!" he yelled sarcastically, "Now, go away and let me enjoy my bath!" Unfortunately, by that point the water was only lukewarm and most of the bubbles had vanished. Steeling himself against the bitingly cold air of the bathroom, he reluctantly clambered out of the tub. _Just like the Pears Soap advert_, he thought even though the room was free from even a hint of checkerboard. He tugged on the metal chain connected to the rubber plug and watched as the water drained out in a clockwise whirl. Somewhere in Australia, he mused, there was probably a man watching the water drain counterclockwise at that exact same moment. He then grabbed the towel from the hook and sponged at the droplets of water that clung to his body before wrapping the towel around his waist.

Carefully opening the lavatory door, he poked his head out and checked the hall for his sister or Phyllis. He could hear the muted sound of conversation coming from Margaret's bedroom, so he decided that it was safe enough to dash across the hall and into the privacy of his old bedroom where, sure enough, he discovered his black suit draped across the top of the bureau waiting for him. He could feel his stomach twisting into knots as he regarded the suit and the sort of day that wearing it would entail. But he knew that he had a choice between wearing the suit or walking around in a towel all day; either way, Margaret would never agree to allow him to stay home from the funeral. And Phyllis would just scrunch up her eyebrows and say _tsk tsk _until he had no choice but to go if he was ever to shut her up. Having concluded that it would be too drafty to wear just a towel on the walk to church, he braced his back against the door—lest there be any more unannounced visits from his sister—and quickly dressed.

He then walked down the hallway to Margaret's bedroom and knocked on the door. "Maggie? Phyllis? You in there?" He, of course, already knew that they were but hoped that Margaret might learn to follow his example and _knock before barging into places when people are trying to have just a little privacy!_

"Come in," called out Phyllis. As he opened the door, Thomas could see Phyllis sitting in front of the vanity while Margaret arranged her hair into a coiffure reminiscent of her own. "Your sister insisted on helping me with my hair. I told her that if she ever wants a change in career, she has the makings of a Lady's Maid, but she doesn't believe me."

"I didn't say that I don't believe you. I said that I'm quite content with my life _not_ being a Lady's Maid," corrected Margaret. She turned round to look Thomas over before nodding with approval. "You smarten up quite nicely, Thomas."

He nodded but remained mute. Despite his jocularity from that morning, all of the nerves that had plagued him over the past few days had returned with a vengeance. Talking to Margaret had been one thing, and he was happy to have survived the ordeal. But willingly confronting his memories of his father—nay, the _ghost _of his father—that would be an entirely different matter. "Ready to go?" he asked with false bravado.

The two women nodded, and so they headed for the entryway to retrieve their shoes and coats before heading out to the door and on their way to the funeral of Mr. Martin Thomas Barrow, loving husband and father as everyone would soon tell them.

No one noticed Mr. Fluffybumkins sleeping atop the wooden dining table as they left.

**Author's Note: A relatively light hearted chapter to give everyone a rest before we get to the funeral. The next chapter might take a while since I actually need to get some work done for my day job and, alas, fanfic doesn't pay the bills.**

**By the way, I changed the son's names from Jeffrey and Edward to Geoffrey and Edmund for ****_reasons_****. **

**Speaking of names, I need names for the funeral attendants, so nominate a few in your review of this chapter. Thanks!**


	17. Chapter 17

The box was simple in design: a six-sided rectangle made of pine, approximately 84 inches long, 28 inches wide, and 24 inches high. As Thomas stared unblinking, he wondered what the man inside of the box was thinking. Was he tossing and turning in vexation that a sinner was now seated in the front pew? Was he growing bored at the litany of praise proffered by a pastor who had only begun officially working at the parish church six months prior and yet spoke as though the two had been closely acquainted? Was he gazing dispassionately at the insides of eyelids that would never open again?

The man inside the box said nothing.

Upon arriving at the church, Thomas was met with a throng of mourners and well-wishers wanting to shake his hand and to offer their condolences. For the most part, he barely recognized any of them after his absence of twenty years, and he was quite certain that they scarcely could remember him as well.

But then there was Mortimer Farnsworth standing before him and saying that he was sorry for Thomas's loss—Mortimer Farnsworth, who had blackened Thomas's eye or bloodied his nose on more than one occasion during their childhood. And Thomas shook the man's hand—the one at the end of his left arm since the right arm ended about six inches above where the elbow used to be—because that's what one does at a funeral.

He nodded politely to Miss Darby who cheating death for far longer than good taste ought to deem necessary told "Timothy" how sorry she was for his loss. Had he not known better, he may have thought that the old woman was now suffering from some sort of dementia. But having been addressed by the wrong name ever since he was a five-year-old child staring with confusion at the odd white markings upon the blackboard, Thomas knew better than to correct her lest she smack his knuckles with a ruler.

He tentatively but nevertheless warmly embraced Amelia Baker, whose belly swelled with the life that now grew within it. And as he shook hands with Amelia's husband, Jonathan Baker, Thomas wondered if the other man ever thought about the kiss they shared on Boxing Day twenty-two years prior or the countless kisses that followed over the next two years. He thought that Jonathan's lips tasted like Christmas—not just of the satsuma they had shared nor of the bourbon that Thomas had pilfered from the family liquor cabinet—but of the promise of being loved and having someone to love in return. It was a kiss that sent Thomas irretrievably down his path in life, and he found himself both saddened and relieved to see that Jonathan's path had led elsewhere.

Shrouded within the walls of the tiny parish church, Thomas now felt a surreal sense of numbness descending upon him. The thought that he was actually sitting there once again—as he had done so many times before in his memories—felt so terribly odd. Of course, the seating arrangement was completely wrong. Margaret was supposed to sit to his right and his parents were supposed to sit to his left; that's how it had always been. But the front pew was now filled with people he barely recognized, and he couldn't think of a way to tell Margaret that they needed to switch places. And so, Margaret sat to his left and her mother-in-law, Mrs. Eunice Howard, sat to his right with her grandsons seated beside her. Her grandsons, _his nephews_: the very notion was as perplexing as it was baffling. Thomas wished that it was Miss Baxter sitting beside him instead, but Phyllis—thinking it best to leave that space available for family—had taken a seat at the rear of the church. How silly of her, thought Thomas, to worry about such things when he himself had not been a member of the family since his banishment at age fourteen.

The sound of Pastor Rehnquist's voice had become a wordless drone as Thomas contemplated the stained-glass window above the pulpit. He gazed at the upper left panel of the window and wondered if Christ shivered at the cold as the waters of the River Jordan swept past His legs, if He felt bewilderment at His place in the world as John the Baptist anointed His crown. Did He know even then what the future held for Him, and had He been content in knowing that His sacrifice would cleanse His children of sin? Did He truly withhold His love for Thomas, who could not seem to escape his fundamental nature no matter how hard he tried, even as He invited a world of sinners into the Kingdom of Heaven? The question clung hard and fast to Thomas's mind as he stood with the members of the congregation to lend his voice to a subdued rendition of _The Day Thou Gavest, Lord, Is Ended_.

_The day thou gavest, Lord, is ended,_

_the darkness falls at thy behest;_

_to thee our morning hymns ascended,_

_thy praise shall sanctify our rest._

_We thank thee that thy Church unsleeping,_

_while earth rolls onward into light,_

_through all the world her watch is keeping,_

_and rests not now by day or night._

_As o'er each continent and island_

_the dawn leads on another day,_

_the voice of prayer is never silent,_

_nor dies the strain of praise away._

_The sun that bids us rest is waking_

_our brethren 'neath the western sky,_

_and hour by hour fresh lips are making_

_thy wondrous doings heard on high._

_So be it, Lord, thy throne shall never,_

_like earth's proud empire, pass away;_

_thy kingdom stands, and grows for ever,_

_till all thy creatures own thy sway._

As his own voice blended in with those of the congregation, Thomas struggled to pick out something familiar within the off-pitched cacophony that, somehow, miraculously melded itself into a unified tune. Was Christ able to pick the individual voices from the chorus? Did He hear the cracking notes of pain and sorrow mixed within the lilting melody?

On their walk to the church, Margaret had explained without provocation that the pastor had arrived three years prior as an assistant to the aging Pastor Eldridge. Despite learning that the man's family had emigrated from Sweden sometime in the late 18th century, Thomas was certain that he could detect the slightest hint of a Scandinavian accent as the pastor recited, "Father in heaven, we praise your name for all who have finished this life loving and trusting you, for the example of their lives, the life and grace you gave them, and the peace in which they rest. We praise you today for your servant Martin and for all that you did through him. Meet us in our sadness and fill our hearts with praise and thanksgiving, for the sake of our risen Lord, Jesus Christ. Amen."

"Amen," repeated the congregation.

From his pulpit, Pastor Rehnquist invited the mourners to say a few words about the memory of Martin Barrow. Feeling utterly dismayed, Thomas shrunk into his seat and prayed that he be made invisible. Mercifully his prayers were answered as a woman, whom Thomas quickly recognized as the publican from the previous night, made her way to the front of the church.

Mrs. Beatrix Farnsworth—for that was her name—nodded sadly to the congregation as though she were offering each and every one of them her blessing. If Thomas had held any animosity towards Mortimer, it was gone in an instant. _Being married to that shrew is punishment enough_, he thought ruefully.

"Thank you, everyone, for coming to say farewell to dear Martin," she said and then, much to Thomas's horror, she began to _sing_. At first, Thomas thought that he may have fallen asleep during Pastor Rehnquist's sermon and that the musically and emotionally tone-deaf sounds emanating from the front of the church were all part of a comically obscene nightmare. But as Mortimer Farnsworth's bride sang _The Old Rugged Cross _without any mind for key or rhythm, Thomas knew that what was transpiring before him was all too painfully real. As he bit the inside of his cheek trying not to laugh at the absurdity of the display, he saw out of the corner of his eye Margaret shaking slightly as she held her hand over her mouth, tears welling in her eyes.

Ashamed at his lack of decorum, Thomas impulsively embraced his sister. She buried her face into the soft fabric of his black suit jacket before whispering in his ear, "She's bloody _dreadful_." With a barely concealed snort of shock and delight, Thomas realized that Margaret had been holding back her laughter as well. They clung to each other tightly as their bodies shook with suppressed guffaws until Mrs. Farnsworth completed her recital, satisfied that she had so clearly touched the siblings' hearts.

The service having come to a conclusion and Pastor Rehnquist having instructed the congregation to precede to Howard Baked Goods for tea and scones, Thomas was left alone in the church save for Margaret, her mother-in-law, the boys, Phyllis, and the man in the box.

"We'll wait for you outside while you say what you need to say," Margaret told him.

He swallowed nervously as the moment he had been dreading finally arrived. "Don't you want to say goodbye?" he asked.

"I've already said everything that I need to say in this lifetime," she answered.

And then it was just Thomas and the man in the box.

With trepidation, he slowly approached the box. It was simple in design: a six-sided rectangle made of pine, approximately 84 inches long, 28 inches wide, and 24 inches high.

"Hi, Dad," he whispered, "It's me, Thomas."

The man inside the box said nothing.

**Author's note: The hymns and prayer come curtesy of various Church of England websites. I have no clue if I got the overall logistics of an Anglican funeral correct, but let's just pretend that I did! I know this chapter is a little short (especially after the long wait), but the next bit really needs to stand on its own to have the proper effect, so there you go. **


	18. Chapter 18

I've been so afraid these past few days: afraid of what people will think of me or what they might say to me. Afraid of their cruelty. Afraid of their kindness. But most of all, Dad, I've been afraid of you.

Got nothing to say to me? Well, I suppose that's to be expected. You never were much for idle chatter, were you? It's just as well, I suppose. There's a lot that I've been needing to say to you; at least now, you won't have much choice but to listen.

This is ridiculous. You're dead, and I'm _still_ terrified about what you might say.

I lied. I haven't been afraid for days; I've been afraid for _years_, for my entire life. And of what? You?! You're nothing but a bag of bones too sodding lazy to get out of that box and talk to me like a man!

This is ridiculous. _You're_ ridiculous. So, you just keep lying inside that box and listen. Okay? You got that? There's things I need to tell you, and for once in your life, you're going to listen.

Do you remember when I was little? You said that the ticking of a clock is no different from the beating of a heart and that one should care for a clock as one would care for the person they loved most. I would sit with you at the back of the workshop and imagined that the sound of all those clocks were ticking to the rhythm of someone's heart. Do you remember how I always wanted to wind them? I used to think that if I could somehow manage to get all those clocks ticking in unison, that if I could accomplish such an impossible feat, that maybe _somebody_ would decide that I'm the person they loved most. Because Lord knows that I have never felt loved by you. And I have wasted years of my life wondering _why _and blaming myself for your _failures_ as a father.

_What kind of father doesn't love his children?!_

Maggie keeps saying that I was your favorite, that you had expectations for me that you didn't have for her. I suppose you expect me to be grateful? Or maybe ashamed? Gee, _thanks_, Dad. How _ever_ did you manage to put up with me? When I think of _all_ the sacrifices you made to try to love me— Oh, that's right. You didn't even bother. Too busy holding onto your expectations.

You know, for a self-righteous perfectionist, you really bollixed this whole dying thing. I swear to God (and given where we are, I'm pretty sure He's listening even if _you're_ not), if Maggie's been left without an inheritance because of your bleeding _expectations_ for me—

I've been doing my best to understand and accept it. Understand and accept that loving me was something that you just _couldn't_ or _wouldn't_ do. I have been doing my _best_. But then there's Maggie, who has done _everything_ to be the golden child in this family, and you had to go and die without making sure things would be in order for her. I suppose I never had a chance with you, did I? Not when you couldn't be bothered to make sure that _she_ felt loved.

I tried changing. Did you know that? I tried to transform myself into the son you always dreamed about. For once in your life, you would have been so _proud_ to have me for a son that you would have forgotten all about your bleeding expectations. I can't believe I— Did you know that I _lied_ to everybody that you were on your death bed? Seems pretty ironic given that you actually _were _just about to give the old heave ho. Bloody typical of you. Oh, but you would have just _loved_ it, Dad. If you could have seen what they did to me, you would have _loved_ it.

You probably think that I've forgotten all about Mr. Simmons, about how you'd point him out and say, "Careful Tommy, you don't want to end up like _that_." For years, I thought he had gone to prison for some horrific act—murder, high treason, _something_. Something vile and evil. And I could never understand what it was that you saw in me, a skinny six-year-old lad who only wanted to learn about clocks from his father. I could never understand what it was inside of me that made you think I might grow up to be just like _vile and evil_ Mr. Simmons.

You always knew about me, didn't you? Even before I knew, you did.

Yup, you would have _loved_ watching them torture me. Try to electrocute the _evil_ out of your _vile_ son. You would have loved it.

I thought that I was doing it for _him_. I thought that if I could transform myself into an entirely new man, if I could be the inverse of who I have always been, he would still want to be my friend. I would stop loving him just enough for him to still be my friend. Ridiculous, huh? The only way for someone to love me is for me to _stop_ loving them?

Yeah, so I told everybody that you were on your death bed. And I even allowed myself to imagine what it would be like once I had been transformed. I was going to surprise you. Me and the missus and maybe a little brat or two— We were going to surprise you. _Surprise! No longer a fairy! Even managed to bang out a couple grandkids for you!_ And you were going to wipe away a tear and smile and say how much you loved me and how glad you were to have me for your son. But I could never quite figure out what I would say in return. Funny isn't it? I couldn't even imagine saying, "I love you, _too_, Dad," because that would require _you_ saying it to me _first_. Even in my most wildest of dreams, the idea of you saying that you loved me was so _outlandish_ that my mind couldn't even process what would come next.

I've been trying my best to understand it. Love. I've been trying for years to understand if you loved me, if God loved me, if _anybody_ ever did or ever would. I keep imagining that everybody's heart is like one of your clocks, and if I could just manage to tune one properly—

I'm not sure if I even really care anymore if God loves me or not. One minute, He's condemning me to Hell and the next He's sending a miracle bullet through my hand. If He can't suss out how He feels about me— Well, I'm tired of trying to figure it out for Him. _And, yes, Lord. I realize that you're listening in. Just can't help eavesdropping, can you? Perhaps, you could do a bit more of the heavy lifting in our relationship, eh?_

I'm not sure if it even _matters_ if you or _God_ or _anybody_ loves me. Because we're _not_ a bunch of clocks, Dad. You can't just poke a key into someone else's heart and wind the works. I've spent so much of my life thinking that being loved was simply a matter of mastering the clockworks of another person's heart that I've never allowed myself to hear the ticking of my own heart.

Did you ever listen to the ticking of the clocks? After I would wind them? Did you ever _bother_ to listen to them? If you did, you would have known that they ticked for the person that _I loved most in the world_. If you just stopped with your expectations and _listened_, maybe— maybe you could have loved me back.

I know you couldn't love me, Dad. I know. Not in this lifetime. And I'm not— I'm not even angry about it. I couldn't change your clockworks anymore than I could change my own. I just _wish_ that you could have _listened_. And that's what— Dad, that's what hurts the most. Even though you couldn't love me, I _still_ love you. That's what hurts the most. I'm tired of hating you for not loving me back. I never had the key to wind your heart; it was never going to tick in time with my own.

I think I'm finally okay with that.

Dad, I know you couldn't love me. And that's okay. I forgive you.

And I still love you.


	19. Chapter 19

The sweet aroma of ozone filled Thomas's nostrils as he walked through the doors of the church and into the churchyard. The rainstorm of the previous evening, which had hitherto seemed like an omen foreboding of certain heartbreak, had cleansed the air and ground of the omnipresent soot that billowed out of the neighboring coal refinery thus revealing—if but for a moment—the Belpher that Thomas sometimes imagined from his childhood. Blinking in the brilliant mid-morning sunshine that dazzled his eyes after being in the dimly lit church for so long, Thomas felt as though he might float up and out of the world, the great burden that had rested upon his soul for so many years having finally lifted.

As his eyes adjusted to the light, he scanned the churchyard for his tether before finally spotting her standing in the small church cemetery. He watched Phyllis with quiet curiosity as she touched her fingers to her lips before gently placing them upon a headstone; she was whispering something to the grave's occupant, but what it was that she said, Thomas did not know. Looking up from the headstone, she caught Thomas's eye and, smiling sadly, made her way through the maze of grave markers.

"Thought that as long as I'm here, I ought to say 'hello' to Mum and Dad," she said by way of explanation.

Thomas blinked at her with a mixture of embarrassment and surprise. Even after all the kindness that she had bestowed upon him, he knew so little about the woman standing in front of him. To say that he embraced her impulsively would do the act an injustice, for to act impulsively without forethought of the consequences was something Thomas had done his entire adult life. Every time he lashed out, every time he schemed, every time he plotted, it was with a reckless disregard for the potential ramifications. But in that moment, when Thomas Barrow wrapped his arms around the woman who had become his salvation—who had seen him through some of the most difficult times of his life without casting judgement, who had been able to see underneath the surface of his cynicism, his cruelty, and had somehow found it possible to forgive him—there was nothing impulsive about an action that had been such a long time coming.

Feeling his body shake with the avalanche of emotions finally breaking free from the hardened shell of inscrutability that he had fashioned around himself for so many years, he clung to Phyllis as though his very life depended upon it. She held him as he began to sob, the breath leaving his lungs in ragged exhalations as he found himself overwhelmed with avalanche formed a cresting wave that now washed over him.

"Oh, Thomas," she murmured to him, "I'm so sorry."

He pulled back from her and, holding her at arms length by her shoulders, looked in her eyes as he tried to search for a way to explain how he felt. "I'm not— I'm not sad. I'm not angry. I don't know how—" He was feeling something in his heart that he wasn't certain he had ever genuinely felt before and the sensation of this new emotion zinged through his body like a bolt of lightening.

He felt gratitude.

"Thank you," he finally managed to say in a choked whisper as his emotions came to a crescendo. "Thank you, Phyllis. Thank you. I don't think I could have— Thank you for giving me strength, for believing in me. I don't think I could have done any of this without you. Thank you." Once more, he pulled her into his arms and embraced her as he willed the electricity of his new found gratitude to flow through him. "Thank you."

**Author's Note: A very short chapter, but I wanted this moment to stand on its own.**


End file.
